


For Every Alpha an Omega

by thepopeisdope



Series: For Every Angel a Family [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Castiel, Angel Dean Winchester, Angst, Bottom Dean, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Language, Hunter Dean, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Omega Dean, Stripper Dean, Top Castiel, True Mates, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 123,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things never go according to plan.</p>
<p>Not when Castiel visits a strip club and finds his other half in Dean, who is definitely not the omega mate an alpha would typically expect to have.</p>
<p>Not when Dean launches a search for his missing father, which starts with a paradigm-shifting trip to Palo Alto.</p>
<p>And most definitely not when they face off against a demon army with a leader they are powerless against.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

How exactly Castiel, angel of the Lord and ever-vigilant purveyor of His creation, came to be in such a den of human iniquity will perhaps always be a mystery to him.

“Come on, Cassie, look at that one! She’s _totally_ making eyes at you. Want me to buy you a dance?”

Then again, when Gabriel is involved, any manner of things may happen.

Castiel sighs and shakes his head at his elder brother, who now doubles as his superior officer. “I’m not interested. Gabriel, you know as well as I that we have no purpose in being here. If Michael were to find out—”

“Michael can go fuck himself,” Gabriel interrupts, and if they weren’t incognito, Castiel is sure his wings would be twitching. “As of tomorrow morning, you aren’t in one of his garrisons anymore, Cassie-baby! You’re _mine_ now, and that means we celebrate _my_ way.”

“I hardly think we need to be celebrating to begin with,” Castiel says half-heartedly. It’s an argument he and Gabriel have already hashed out several times, but regardless, he feels the need to reiterate his feelings on the matter to his brother.

“Cas,” Gabriel sighs, just as Castiel knew he would, “You were the only fledgling I was ever responsible for. _The only one_. We’re here because, not only are you _finally_ out of Mikey’s clutches—which was a sack of shit from the start, we all know that—but you’re still a virgin, too!” He presses a hand to his chest for dramatic effect. “Do you understand how _tragic_ that is?”

And that’s what it comes down to—not Castiel’s recent transfer to Gabriel’s authority, not his hard-earned promotion within the Hierarchy, but his _virginity_.

Even among angels, societal standards are absurd.

“Gabriel,” Castiel responds, “We’ve been over this. I am making a _choice_ , and it does not reflect on you or your abilities as a mentor.”

Gabriel scowls. “That’s what _you_ think. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. We’re here, and even if you don’t get laid, this’ll be a nice teaser.”

Just like that, their conversation is over. Gabriel signals to a waitress—a young woman dressed in a short, white skirt that barely covers her backside and an equally skimpy white tube-top paired with, absurdly enough, a small, strap-on pair of matching angel wings—to bring them beverages. She returns shortly with a tray of shots, of which Gabriel immediately downs half. After a moment of hesitation, Castiel follows his example.

While angels are not exactly prudes—sex and matings are a primary source of gossip, after all—sex-oriented businesses are not in their typical repertoire. For that, they have to visit Earth, their wings concealed and powers restrained. Very few upper members of the Hierarchy allow for such visits to take place, and Michael is not one of them.

The establishment—a ‘strip club,’ according to Gabriel—is stranger than anything Castiel has experienced in his long, relatively-sheltered life. The building is dimly-lit, and smells strongly of alcohol and human sweat—primarily that of the three female dancers, all dressed as mock representations of angels, currently on the stage in front of them, grinding against gleaming silver poles. Men and women alike sit clustered along the front of the stage, watching rapturously and passing the local currency in the dancers’ direction.

Castiel is completely out of his element.

The waitress comes back with two beers and sets one in front of each angel, then very obviously looks Gabriel over. “Anything else I can get you, honey?” she asks, leaning in to the point that her breasts are nearly touching his face.

Gabriel grins and takes a deep breath in through his nose. He keeps his eyes locked on hers, save for a quick detour to the nametag on her chest. “Actually _Candy_ , I think there are quite a few things you can get me. Are you on the menu?”

“For you?” Candy laughs. “I just might be. I go on stage in half an hour, actually, so if you stick around…”

Castiel chooses now to drain his glass of beer.

Gabriel winks at Candy. “I’ll be here.” He pauses and gives Castiel a searching glance, eyeing the now-empty glass. He asks Candy, “Who’s going on after these fine ladies right here?”

Candy glances behind her at the stage, where the women are clearly beginning to wrap up their performance. “On angels and demons nights, we alternate performances between angels and demons. Next should be a solo performance by a demon.”

Gabriel thanks her and she saunters away, though not without a final weighted look in his direction. Gabriel turns and waggles his eyebrows at Castiel. “Did you see that, little bro? I’m _totally_ getting some.”

Castiel glares in return. “You did not have to scent her so obviously,” he snaps. Scenting is a display meant to show sexual attraction and interest in intercourse, and to see his brother do it so shamelessly is almost as bad as seeing him be actually physically aroused, or displaying his wings.

“Cassie, Cassie, Cassie,” Gabriel tuts. “How do you expect to get any action at all with an attitude like that? Besides, humans don’t _scent_ like we do. They don’t have alphas, they don’t have omegas. Come on, you know this.”

Yes, Castiel knows this. He knows that humans are nothing like angels, and that’s why he has always found them so _fascinating_. He opens his mouth to reply to Gabriel, a witty comeback ready on his tongue, but a sudden, dramatic change in music distracts him. He looks up at the stage to find it clear of the women from before and bereft of light. The music, a combination of guitar and drums, blares to full volume just as the center light comes on to illuminate a single man, bathing him in red light. A rasping voice begins to sing, and the man begins to move.

Instantly, Castiel is mesmerized. The man—dressed as a ‘demon’ in red sequined pants, a skin-tight black tank-top, and a headband with small, pointed horns—gyrates beautifully to the music, his movements smooth and easy, as if they come naturally. The music seems to flow through him, and the smile that alights his face is bright and genuine.

At the lyrics “ _You shook me all night long_ ,” the spotlight switches from red to white and the sequin pants are torn away, baring the man’s bowed legs save for a pair of matching red panties.

The club patrons cheer and throw money.

Castiel’s mouth goes dry and, for a moment, he swears he forgets how to breathe.

The man lights up at the praise. He continues to grind and dance in the center of the stage, sometimes against the pole and other times not. His hips never cease in their movements as he works his way around the stage. There is a pattern and a rhythm to his moves, but Castiel is not coherent enough to decipher it.

Towards the end of the act, the man’s eyes fall on Castiel. They are bright and green and full of mischief, and the moment Castiel can see into their depths, he can see the man’s soul, burning, hot and radiant, beneath his skin. It is the brightest soul he has ever seen in his life.

The man’s expression shifts near imperceptibly as he watches Castiel, his grin becoming even more genuine. The man winks before being forced to turn away to finish his act.

In that moment, Castiel finally understand what it means to _want_.

Or perhaps _need_ is more accurate, because the itch in Castiel’s veins is more intense than a simple _want_.

The end of the man’s routine is perfectly timed with the end of the song, which is hardly a surprise. What _is_ a surprise, however, is the final, lingering look he gives Castiel before disappearing backstage, ignoring the shouts and catcalls from other patrons. He is gone from view before Castiel can decide how to react.

Also surprising is the distinct lack of a certain archangel at the table.

Castiel’s senses jump to high-alert as he scans the building for his brother, but he quickly relaxes again when he detects Gabriel approaching from the far side of the club. How had he not noticed his departure from the table? More importantly, what is his brother up to?

Gabriel slides back into the booth across from Castiel, a wicked grin on his face. “Hey, bro. Enjoy the show?”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Where did you go?” he asks, cutting straight to the point.

“Oh, you know,” Gabriel says with a shrug, “Just chatting with a couple employees. And buying you a private dance with a certain handsome devil.”

“ _What_?”

Gabriel’s grin widens. He gets back to his feet and hooks his arm through Castiel’s, forcing him to follow him through the club. “He goes by Lawrence, but that’s not his real name. If you’re lucky, he might _tell_ you his real name, but don’t push it, that might get you thrown out. You only have between twenty-five and thirty minutes. He’s in charge, don’t touch unless he tells you to, and don’t make an ass of yourself. You got me?” He stops Castiel at the entrance to a back hallway, next to a burly man working security. Before Castiel can formulate a response, Gabriel shoves him into the hallway and says, “Door three. Go get him, tiger.”

Then Castiel is on his own. He does his best to swallow his nerves and enters the room Gabriel specified, but from there, he has no idea what to do. The room is largely empty, save for a black leather armchair, a modest-sized stereo system, and a coat rack. Castiel hovers awkwardly near the chair, his veins throbbing with a mix of anxiety and anticipation. Oddly enough, the one thought he latches onto is that he is glad Gabriel convinced him to leave his usual trench coat behind tonight—his slacks and button-down shirt make him feel plenty constricted on their own.

The opening of the door jars Castiel from his thoughts, and when he meets the man’s eyes (Castiel would prefer not to use any name at all in reference to the man than to use the false one Gabriel gave him) that same, heady sense of _need_ from before returns, flooding his system and almost making him forget everything else. He cannot help but inhale deeply, drinking in the man’s scent—an intoxicating mix like that of leather and cherries, amplified by the thin layer of sweat on his body.

The man raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow at Castiel, almost as if in response to his thoughts. “You just gonna stand there, hot stuff?” he asks. “Or are you planning on sitting down at some point so we can get this show on the road?”

Castiel sinks into the chair, pleased when the man smiles his approval. Castiel clears his throat. “I have never been to an establishment such as this before,” he says sheepishly, hoping the confession will help the man warm to him.

Gabriel’s words echo in his mind: _Don’t make an ass of yourself_.

The man smirks, his eyes roaming over Castiel’s form. “First timer, huh?” he says as he sidles up to the controls for the stereo system. He looks at Castiel from over his shoulder. “What brought you out tonight, then?”

“My brother.”

The man chuckles. “Say no more, man. I got one of those myself.” Music begins to filter through the speakers, similar to what played when the man was on stage, but not the same. The turns and saunters toward Castiel, the red of his pants—paired with a tight black top, just like when his earlier performance began—glinting in the light as he sways his hips to the beat. He comes and stands right in Castiel’s space and boxes him against the chair with his arms, almost-but-not-quite touching in several places. “So,” he says lowly, his breath ghosting across Castiel’s lips, “Do you want me to dance for you, hot stuff?”

“Y-yes,” Castiel manages to stutter. He is painfully aware of the way the blood in his body all seems to flow downward to pool in his groin, and from the gleam in the man’s green eyes, he knows it as well. Perhaps it is that gleam that compels Castiel to say, “My name is Castiel.”

The man’s eyebrows raise slightly, and a smile graces his lips. He takes an impossible step forward and begins to swivel his hips into Castiel’s face. “An angel name, huh? Is that why your brother bought you a dance with a _demon_? The irony of it?”

Oh, if only he knew.

Instead of acknowledging this, Castiel asks, “You are familiar with angel names?”

The man shrugs, looking somewhat embarrassed. “It’s, uh… kind of a family thing. Don’t worry about it.”

Castiel’s interest is piqued, but he won’t push the subject. Instead, he watches the man’s body as he grinds against his lap, still not actually touching. It is mesmerizing to watch, and Castiel is quickly reminded of the erection straining against the front of his pants.

Then the pants are shed, and the man is only in the red panties again.

Suddenly, the erection is the least of Castiel’s worries.

His wings strain against their confines, trapped in something of a pocket dimension where they are hidden from view. They itch to stretch and display themselves, to show this human that he is worthy, that he can be a good mate, a good alpha. It goes against every instinct Castiel has to keep them concealed, and his powers begin to fluctuate under his grip on them.

Oblivious to Castiel’s struggle, the man continues to grind and swivel his hips, getting closer and closer to Castiel’s lap with every turn of his body. When a new song begins, a faster tempo than the last, the man leans in and whispers in Castiel’s ear, “You can touch, if you’d like.”

Castiel groans softly. He tentatively settles his hands on the man’s hips, pushing up the satiny material of his tank-top to access his skin and watching his face closely for a reaction. The man’s eyes slide closed for a moment, and the exposed skin of his legs finally, _finally_ touches Castiel’s thighs as he moves to lightly straddle him on the chair.

Castiel’s powers spike, causing the lights in the room to flicker and the stereo to turn up several notches. The man is blissfully ignorant to both, having missed the lightshow due to his closed eyes.

Castiel gently runs his hands up the man’s sides and across his back, loving the way his breath hitches. The man, too, is now fully erect, the panties he wears doing little to hide the fact, and the scent of his arousal is thick in the air. It seems only natural for Castiel to graze a hand across the front of the panties, the other threading into the man’s hair—purposefully knocking the horned headband to the ground—and forcing those lust-blown green eyes to meet his own.

“What is your name?” Castiel asks. His voice has gone deeper than usual, and the man shivers at the sound of it.

The man hesitates before answering, his eyes boring into Castiel’s. A lie perches on the tip of his tongue, the weight of it visible on his soul, but it falls back away almost instantly. “Dean.”

“Dean,” Castiel repeats. The single word sends a thrill through his body, and the lights flicker imperceptibly. “May I touch you?” he asks, teasing his fingers along the hard line of Dean’s erection again in emphasis.

Dean presses forward into Castiel’s hand, nodding fervently. He noses against Castiel’s jawline and moans brokenly, “ _Please_ , Castiel.”

Castiel’s inner alpha crows in victory. He is quick to tug Dean’s panties down to expose his flushed cock. Castiel pauses briefly before wrapping his hand around Dean’s length—he’s never done this before, after all—but the up-down rhythm comes naturally, his way eased by the precome dripping from the slit.

Dean’s hips pick up pace as he thrusts into the grip of Castiel’s fingers. He holds Castiel’s shoulders tightly and presses their foreheads together. “Cas,” he pants, a hand sliding to weave into the hair at the back of Castiel’s neck, “Fuck me.”

The scorching burst of desire that follows those words abruptly forces Castiel back to reality. What is he doing? He cannot have sex with Dean, not here, not now. He knows what this overwhelming urge to be with him is—he is not _completely_ naïve, after all—but that does not make his behavior acceptable. This is no place for alpha posturing, or a mating.

Even with a human mate, Castiel’s knot will lock them together for a length of time far longer than Dean is accustomed to. There are several subjects they need to discuss before they get to that stage.

An armchair in the back room of a human club is far from the ideal place for any of that.

So with great reluctance, Castiel shakes his head. “Not here.”

Dean frowns and slows his movements, settling heavily over Castiel’s thighs with their cocks just barely out of alignment. “Not here?” he parrots, staring at Castiel with wide eyes. He draws back slightly and hunches in on himself, his eyes flicking downward. “I-I’m sorry. This isn’t the kind of thing I normally _do_ , man, I—”

Embarrassment and distress pour out of Dean in droves, so Castiel silences him with a kiss. It’s hot and wet and perfect, their lips and tongues moving in wonderful synchronization. Castiel grips Dean’s hips and pulls his body against his own, thrusting his tongue into Dean’s mouth and dominating the kiss.

Dean begins to grind his hips again, their position smearing precome along the front of Castiel’s shirt. The friction against his own erection makes Castiel moan into Dean’s mouth. The lights resume their earlier dance, their brightness flickering even more noticeably as Castiel's limits are tested.

If he isn’t careful, he might just pop a knot whether he fucks Dean or not.

With a speed that really isn’t passable as human, Castiel flips their positions, depositing Dean into the chair and sliding to the floor beneath his parted legs. Dean’s eyes are wide with surprise when Castiel meets them, and that is all the encouragement Castiel needs to dip down and take Dean’s cock into his mouth.

Dean’s scent—which Castiel has been continually taking in—noticeably spikes with pleasure and arousal. He buries his hands in Castiel’s hair and rolls his hips in a silent request for more. Castiel doesn’t hesitate to comply, sinking down to take Dean in deeper, only stopping when his lips are around the base and his nose is pressed into the crop of wiry hair.

Castiel bobs his head several times, swirling his tongue as he does. Dean quickly dissolves to little more than a whimpering mess, begging Castiel for more, _please, Cas, please_. Castiel practically purrs in satisfaction, and Dean cries out at the vibrations it sends through him. At the same time, Castiel reaches a finger back to rub a across the pucker of Dean’s hole, and just like that, Dean is lost.

Castiel dutifully swallows down every drop of Dean’s come, then pulls off and rocks back on his heels to focus on regaining his own composure. His powers are only barely under control, and it requires every shred of his will to keep his wings concealed. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his mouth for a moment, focusing on regulating himself and not reaching his own climax.

When he finally looks back up at Dean, he finds those green eyes watching him in return, half-lidded but rapturous. “So,” he says, a grin stretching across his face, “What was that you were saying about ‘not here,’ huh?”

Castiel stands, chuckling. “You asked me to fuck you,” he replies with a smile. “My answer to _that_ was _not here_. That still stands.”

Dean shakily gets to his feet, readjusting his panties to cover his softened dick, and settles a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Are you telling me,” he says seriously, looking deep into Castiel’s eyes, “that that’s still an option?”

The question is asked so earnestly, so hopefully, that Castiel cannot help but chuckle again. He cradles the side of Dean’s face with the palm of his hand and says, “It’s a certainty.”

Dean grins. “You know, the manager owes me a favor. I think I can swing getting out of here now, if you’d like.”

Castiel presses a tender kiss to Dean’s lips, stroking his thumb across his cheekbone. “I think I would like that very much.”

“Cool.” Dean takes a step away from Castiel and stoops to retrieve his pants from where they were discarded on the floor, quickly stepping back into them. He grimaces at the precome staining his tank-top, and picks at it idly for a second before opting to just remove the shirt all together, baring his chest to Castiel for the first time.

Castiel’s breath catches, though not for the same reason as it had before.

Dean has an anti-possession sigil tattooed over his heart.

Well. Their conversation will be more interesting than Castiel initially suspected.

“If we are leaving, I need to let my brother know,” Castiel says, forcing his eyes away from the tattoo. It isn’t a talk he _wants_ to have with Gabriel, per se, but it is one that must happen regardless.

Dean switches the stereo system off and nods. “I’ll meet you by the front door in fifteen, then?” he says, the shyness Castiel had witnessed earlier creeping back into his tone. “I, uh, have to clear things with the manager. I mean, I’m pretty sure she’ll let me go, like I said, but I still have to talk to her.”

Castiel smiles. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes, then.”

~

Castiel finds Gabriel right where he left him, reclining in the booth and sipping on a beer, his eyes fixed on the stage. He looks up when Castiel approaches and bolts upright in shock. “Little bro, you got some action!” He wrinkles his nose. “You reek of sex. And… what is that other scent? What the hell happened, Cassie?”

“Dean is my true mate.”

Gabriel spits a mouthful of beer across the table which, really, he should have known would happen. It was a poorly-timed drink from the start. Castiel rolls his eyes while he waits for his brother to recover.

Finally Gabriel splutters, “Say that again for me?”

Castiel sighs and perches on the bench of the opposite side of the booth. “Dean is my true mate,” he repeats.

Gabriel gapes at him for a long minute, then flops backward in his seat. “Well, fuck me. Guess that explains why you actually showed some interest, then.”

“Gabriel, this means I have to tell him who I am, _what_ I am,” Castiel whispers across the table, aware of the extreme obviousness of his anxiety on the matter. “And to complicate the situation further, I suspect he is a hunter. He has connections to the life, at the very least.” He buries his face in his hands. “Gabriel, what do I _do_?”

Gabriel rests a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas, I know for a fact you are capable of handling this. _More_ than capable, even. Besides, it may not be common, but you aren’t the first angel to take a human mate. There’s a whole system in place to handle it.”

Castiel’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Oh.” Gabriel frowns. “You don’t know. Well, your boy Dean-o probably won’t be too happy about it, but once you complete the mating bond, he’ll develop angelic traits. Not many, of course, but enough where it counts. You’ll be just as bonded as any two angels would be.”

Castiel contemplates this for a moment. He shakes his head. “I cannot ask Dean to give up his life on Earth. You haven’t seen his _soul_ , Gabriel. It’s so _bright_ , and he is so _pure_. He’s _good_.”

“Stripper with the heart of gold, eh?” Gabriel says, snorting at his own joke. “But why the hell is a hunter a stripper? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Anyways, from the smell of you, I’d say human-boy is just as affected by the bond as you are, so I doubt you’ll have any problems on that front. As for the rest…” Gabriel shrugs. “Just roll with the punches, kiddo.”

And that’s all Castiel can do, really—roll with the punches, hope for the best. He may not know any angels with human mates himself, but if Gabriel says it isn’t a problem, he will believe him.

He spares a moment to be thankful for his transfer away from Michael’s authority. Not only would he not have met Dean without Gabriel’s silly celebration, but Michael would likely not be anywhere near as supportive as Gabriel is being.

Castiel smells Dean before he sees him, coming out of the _employees only_ rooms in the back, dressed in street-clothes and with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He makes a beeline for the front door, dodging patrons and pausing only to say goodbye to the few other employees he passes. He grins widely through it all, his high spirits visible for all to see.

Castiel isn’t aware that he himself is smiling as well until Gabriel smacks him on the shoulder and, in an echo of their earlier conversation, says, “Go get him, tiger.”

Castiel doesn’t need to be told twice.

Using his grace as a cheat, he arrives at the front door mere seconds before Dean does. Dean has his head turned back, scouring the club—likely for Castiel—and so he doesn’t see him arrive. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s body goes rigid and he startles backwards half a step, his hands curling into fists in the split-second it takes for him to recognize the deep timbre of Castiel’s voice. “Christ, Cas, you scared the shit out of me!” he says with a glare. He looks around a bit, frowning. “Where the hell did you come from, man? Were you standing here the whole time?”

Castiel shrugs. “I apologize for frightening you. Are you ready to leave?”

Dean stares at Castiel intently for a moment, searching for something, though for what Castiel has no idea. Eventually he says, “Yeah, I’m good,” and pushes out the front door. He leads Castiel through the parking lot to an angular, black vehicle, which he unlocks and tosses his bag into.

He hesitates before climbing into the driver’s seat, looking back at Castiel apprehensively. “So, uh… My place or yours?”

Castiel pauses as he considers this. He does not have a place on Earth where he could take Dean, but with his grace, it would not be difficult to attain one. But perhaps Dean will respond better to the conversation Castiel must have with him if he is in a familiar space? That seems plausible.

With this thought in mind, Castiel twitches his shoulder in a shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “Whichever you prefer, Dean.”

Dean purses his lips and nods. “My place it is, then,” he says, swinging his body into the car. He gestures for Castiel to do the same.

Once Castiel is seated, Dean turns the key and the car roars to life beneath them. Dean flicks the radio to life and rock music, not unlike what he danced to in the club, blares through the speakers as he puts the car into gear and drives them away from the club.

Castiel watches Dean closely for the duration of the drive. Dean is happy—it is obvious even without the assistance of heightened angelic senses, though they definitely help. His soul burns hot with joy as he drums his hands against the steering wheel to the beat of the music, and his scent, too, is overflowing with happiness and anticipation.

From what Castiel can gather of Dean’s thoughts—and he is trying not to openly read them, truly—is that, until meeting Castiel, Dean had been on a ‘dry streak’ for some time, and on top of that, he has been suffering from loneliness at the loss of… his brother? Without looking more closely Castiel cannot be positive, but he suspects it is a brother who caused Dean this grief.

Castiel is glad for Dean’s joy. If he chooses to accept the mating bond with Castiel—which, Father above, Castiel prays he does—Castiel will fight to ensure Dean never feels so lonely, so desolate, so long as he exists, because Dean deserves so much more than that.

“Cas?” Dean asks, tearing Castiel from his thoughts. He had been staring. “You okay over there, buddy? You look real deep in thought. Are you…” Dean clears his throat roughly. “Are you second guessing this?”

Castiel frowns. “Why would you think that, Dean?”

The car eases to a stop at a red traffic light. Dean runs a hand through his hair, avoiding Castiel’s gaze. “I don’t know, man, this just seems really… sudden.” Castiel raises an eyebrow, but before he can say anything Dean’s eyes meet his and he rushes to add, “Not that _I’m_ backing out, though! I just… I think I said this already, but this isn’t the kind of thing I usually _do_ , man. I don’t have sex with customers.”

Castiel nods his understanding. Their status as true mates is undoubtedly affecting Dean’s decision-making abilities—not in the sense that his choices are not consensual, of course, but enough to encourage him to pursue Castiel.

He asks Dean, “What is it about me that worries you?”

Dean keeps his eyes firmly on the road when he answers, accelerating through the intersection with perhaps more gusto than is necessary. “I don’t know,” he says tightly. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

If that isn’t the best thing he has heard all night, Castiel doesn’t know what is.

They pull into a motel several minutes later and Dean parks in front of the last room on the row. Castiel doesn’t mind, but he looks at Dean curiously. “This is where you live?”

Dean fidgets in his seat. “Yeah,” he replies, rubbing at the back of his neck one-handedly. “I like motels, and I spent a lot of my childhood in them. And they’re easy to get out of if I need to hit the road in a hurry.”

Definitely a hunter, then.

“Perhaps we should go inside?” Castiel asks with a smile. The expression widens when Dean mirrors it, the scent of his excitement and arousal filling the car. Castiel breathes it in greedily, and it takes all his willpower to exit the vehicle and not jump Dean here and now.

They need to talk, he reminds himself sternly. _Angel, hunter_.

Dean retrieves his duffel bag from the back seat of the car then leads the way into his motel room. Inside, he tosses the bag to the floor without a second glance.

Castiel steels himself. “Dean—”

He is cut off by a heated press of lips and a pair of hands slamming him backwards against the just-closed door. Dean’s body is a solid line against Castiel’s own, and his dick is hard and insistent against Castiel’s hip. Castiel moans at the sudden overload of sensation, and Dean takes the opportunity to plunge his tongue into the angel’s mouth.

“Dean,” Castiel gasps into Dean’s mouth. His powers are slipping out of control and the lights have begun to flicker slightly. “Wait, we need—”

Dean silences him with a sharp bite to his lower lip, then trails kisses and licks across Castiel’s jawline until he reaches his ear, nipping at the lobe. “You talk too much, Cas,” he whispers, sending a pleasant shiver down Castiel’s spine. He then slots a leg between Castiel’s and rolls his knee up, hard.

Castiel cries out in pleasure. The lamp on the near side of the bed explodes.

As if a switch had been hit, Dean’s whole demeanor changes. He shoots away from Castiel and draws a handgun—where exactly it comes from, Castiel is too surprised to determine—then stands stiffly in the center of the room and glares at the shattered remains of the lamp. His green eyes have gone hard, and they dart around the room in search of a source, or perhaps of other disturbances.

Castiel sighs heavily and pries himself away from the door. The movement immediately draws Dean’s attention. He whirls on his heel and raises his gun in Castiel’s direction, though only for a moment before reevaluating and pointing it at a neutral patch of carpet between them.

Castiel just watches. Waits.

Finally, Dean says, “What the fuck just happened?”

Here it is. The point of no return.

He wets his lips and confesses, “I'm finding it difficult to control myself around you.”

Dean’s eyes widen. He grips the gun tighter, tension in every line of his body. “That was _you_?”

Castiel nods. He isn’t surprised when he suddenly finds himself staring down the barrel of the gun, but that does not mean his heart aches any less.

“Alright, then,” Dean spits. “Wanna tell me what the _fuck_ you are? And what the _fuck_ kind of game you’re playing with me?”

Despite the delicacy with which he should be handling the situation, Castiel glares. “Do _not_ accuse me of playing games with you, Dean Winchester, not when I try to speak to you and you tell me I ‘talk too much’.” He forms air quotes with his fingers around that last part.

A faint blush colors Dean’s cheeks, and were he not at risk of simultaneously being shot and rejected by his true mate, Castiel may have paused to appreciate the way the pink makes Dean’s freckles stand out.

Unfortunately, now _really_ isn’t a good time.

Dean steps in closer, still holding the gun steady. He bites out in return, “How did you know my last name?”

Castiel blinks. He had not realized he used Dean’s surname when he spoke. Truthfully, he does not even recall when or how he learned it. “I can see it in your soul,” is the best answer he can give.

“You can see my soul?” Dean questions. “I’ll ask you one more time— _what the fuck are you_?”

“I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Bullshit.”

With a thought, Castiel knocks Dean’s gun from his hands and sends it flying across the room. Dean gapes, and Castiel’s lips twitch in a smile. “Would you like a demonstration?”

Dean’s now empty hands clench into fists. He glances in the direction of the handgun. “Angels aren’t real.”

Castiel takes a step forward into Dean’s space, frowning. “And why are you so convinced they aren’t?” he asks. “You know demons exist—the sigil tattooed over your heart proves that. And when I told you my name, you recognized it as an angel’s name—that tells me you are educated in the subject of Heaven, and quite thoroughly, if you knew _my_ name. So tell me, Dean. Why aren’t angels real?”

Dean swallows thickly. For a fraction of a second, his eyes fall on Castiel’s lips. “If God is real,” he says, his voice wavering slightly, “If _angels_ are real, then why did my mom die? She was _slaughtered_ , Cas, by a _demon_ , and in her own son’s nursery for crying out loud. What kind of shitty God allows that to happen?”

Castiel’s stomach sinks, and he closes his eyes tightly against the sting of tears. No child should ever have to go through what Dean speaks of. “I speak only of angels, Dean. I will not attempt to speak for my Father, nor the cruelties that occur in his absence.”

Dean sucks in a breath. “Absence?”

Castiel shakes his head. It is not a subject he will discuss. Instead, he looks to Dean with wide, pleading eyes. “Even if you struggle to believe what I _am_ , Dean, I ask that you believe my intentions toward you. I bear you no ill will, I swear to it.”

“Your _intentions_?” Dean repeats. Although he is still on edge, much of the anger has drained from his voice. “What exactly _are_ your intentions, Cas? If you somehow aren’t totally talking out of your ass and you _are_ an angel, what the fuck were you doing in a _strip club_? Why did you pick _me_ , and how did we end up _here_?”

“I believe I told you earlier, I was there because of my brother,” he answers calmly. “I was recently promoted and he wished to celebrate. As for my intentions…” Castiel loops a hand around the back of Dean’s neck and tugs the man in for a chaste kiss, pleased when he doesn’t resist. “That is perhaps a larger discussion, though one I am willing to have if you are willing to listen.”

Dean’s eyes had glazed over slightly when their lips touched, and even now, in the midst of ground-breaking confessions and heated arguments, his scent twists with a hint of arousal. Castiel is so caught up in Dean’s scent that he almost doesn’t hear him say, “I’ll listen.”

Castiel’s fingers tighten in Dean’s hair. “Truly?”

“Yeah, Cas.” Dean mirrors Castiel’s position and weaves his fingers into his dark locks of hair. “There’s just something about you, man. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t at least hear you out.”

“Angels have secondary genders,” Castiel begins, getting straight to the point with the necessary information he feels Dean needs. “We are male and female, and then we are alphas, betas, and omegas. I am an alpha. We form mating bonds with other angels, bonds that are strongest when we are most compatible.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “I don’t see where _I_ come into this. You, what, want me as a mate?”

“You are my true mate, Dean. True mates are not unlike the human ideal of soul mates.”

Dean gapes. “But I’m human.”

Castiel smiles and strokes a thumb along the arch of Dean’s cheekbone. “Yes, you are. Wonderfully so. Gabriel assures me there have been mating bonds between angels and humans in the past, so that will not be an issue.”

“Gabriel?” Dean repeats.

“My brother.”

“Gabriel. As in, the _archangel_ Gabriel.”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit, dude.”

Castiel clears his throat. “Dean, I can be a good alpha for you. I will be a good mate, a good lover, I swear it. I will not ask anything of you in return, I—”

Dean cuts him off with a kiss, just as heated as the ones he had given when they first arrived at the motel. He licks his way into the space between Castiel’s parted lips and their tongues dance and twine together. Dean pulls back for only a second to whisper the word, “Yes.”

Castiel chokes out a sob of joy. Any other time he may have been embarrassed by the sound, but _Dean just agreed to be his mate_. The rest of creation pales in the light of Castiel’s elation.

Without further ado, Castiel walks Dean backwards and pushes him down to sprawl across the bed. He cages Dean in with his own body, still kissing him passionately, and grinds his erection—which took no time at all to return full force—against Dean’s, drawing a deep moan out of the man.

“Cas,” Dean gasps when Castiel’s lips move and settle against his pulse, “Too many _clothes_.”

Yes. Right. Clothes. Castiel banishes them with a thought.

The sudden slide of skin on skin makes Dean groan. “Holy _fuck_ , dude.”

“That is the idea, yes,” Castiel chuckles, sliding down Dean’s body and closing his teeth around the bud of a nipple. It hardens instantly under his swirling tongue, and he scrapes his teeth across it lightly. He continues his work for several moments, loving the way Dean keens and writhes beneath him, the arousal thick in his leather-and-cherries scent, before switching to the other nipple.

This, combined with Castiel’s ever-wandering hands and soft touches, quickly reduces Dean to a wanton mess. “Please, Cas,” he begs, his back arching off the bed. He hauls Castiel back up so their faces are level. “ _Please_ , I need _more_ , dammit.” Then he wraps a hand around Castiel’s cock and _tugs_.

At least three lightbulbs pop when Castiel finally loses his grip on himself and his wings unfurl from their hiding place. They cascade from between his shoulder blades and over either side of the bed, their onyx-black feathers making the whole room seem darker. Castiel flexes them slowly, working out the tension from having them concealed, though he does not move his body even an inch away from Dean’s.

“ _Shit_ ,” Dean breathes, visibly awe-struck. “Can I… Can I touch them?”

In lieu of a verbal answer, Castiel swings his wings forward so that they are within his reach. He gets back to work nipping and sucking along Dean’s neck while he explores, pausing only to mutter against the shell of his ear, “They are most sensitive below the joints.”

When Dean buries his fingers in the mass of feathers where Castiel specified, Castiel almost comes then and there, and has to seal his fingers around the base of his dick to stave off his orgasm. He lets Dean have his fun for a few minutes, but once he locates his glands and their oil begins to coat Dean’s fingers, he knows he cannot delay any longer.

He leans back and flares his wings high in a gesture of alpha dominance, just as he would for any submissive angel he was about to claim. Although he does not know what it means, Dean’s breathing grows even more erratic at the sight. The lust and adoration in his green eyes is almost too much for Castiel to handle, and yet when he grips Dean’s hips and flips him to his stomach, he laments the loss.

Dean, thankfully, does not need any prompting to spread his knees and raise his ass in the air, presenting himself for Castiel as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

Castiel moans at the sight before him, and immediately leans in to run his tongue across the surface of Dean’s hole. It lacks the natural omega slickness that an angel would have, but Castiel couldn’t care less as he spreads Dean’s cheeks with his hands and licks his way into that tight heat.

Dean cries out in ecstasy. His thighs quiver and his hips twitch, as if he cannot decide whether to rock onto the tongue in his ass or away from it. Castiel arches his wings forward and begins stroking his primary feathers along Dean’s back soothingly, and kneads his thumbs into Dean’s rim while his tongue is still buried deep inside.

Dean finally hits his limit and comes hard, his cock emptying onto the sheets. The muscles of his ass tighten around Castiel’s tongue, and once they go slack from the aftershocks of the orgasm, Castiel pulls back and instead sinks two grace-lubed fingers inside.

Castiel allows his grace to trickle through his fingers and into the walls of Dean’s channel, speeding the preparation. Two fingers quickly becomes three, with room to spare. Dean rocks back on the fingers and groans, no doubt enjoying the tingling sensations caused by the grace. By the time Castiel deems him ready, Dean’s dick is already rock hard again—another perk of Castiel’s grace.

Castiel kneels behind Dean and nudges the head of his cock against his entrance, his wings still stroking Dean’s sides. He takes a deep breath to prepare himself, then pushes in.

Even with all of the preparation Castiel did, Dean is still so _tight_. He is _tight_ and _hot_ against Castiel’s cock, and Castiel is forced to pause several times before bottoming out just to ensure he does not climax too soon. When he finally, _finally_ , is buried in Dean to the hilt, his fingers digging into Dean’s hips with enough force to bruise, he swears he is not on Earth, but instead in his own, personal heaven.

He suddenly understands why sex is such a big deal to so many people.

Dean was patient while Castiel entered him, but now that he has adjusted to the hard length filling him up, he squirms and cants his hips as best he can. “ _Move_ , Cas.”

It isn’t a request Castiel is about to deny.

He pulls back until only the head of his cock remains in Dean, then slams all the way back in, eliciting a moan from them both. Castiel repeats the movement a few times before falling into a more manageable rhythm, less dramatic though no less intense. He angles his thrusts to ensure he nails Dean’s prostate on every inward glide which, from the gibbering profanities and moans that fall from his mouth, Castiel would say he is thankful for.

As Castiel nears climax, his knot beginning to swell into place, he leans over Dean’s back and noses at his neck, whispering, “You’re so good for me, Dean, so perfect. Come for me, my beloved.”

Dean obediently crests into his second orgasm, moaning Castiel’s name as dick spills and his ass clenches around Castiel’s length.

Castiel’s knot locks into place at the same time that his teeth sink into the meat of Dean’s neck, his own orgasm tearing through him like a hurricane. His come floods Dean’s channel and continues to do so for what feels like minutes, and he is distantly aware of the remaining electrical sources in the room erupting into showers of sparks and glass. His wings, too, have gone tense, arched upward and pressing into the ceiling.

All at once, Castiel’s insides turn to mush. He falls down sideways onto the bed and pulls Dean’s equally-lax body into the cradle of his own, careful not to disturb his knot for fear of causing Dean additional discomfort. He settles a hand on Dean’s hip and idly strokes his thumb across it.

For a moment, Dean just breathes. His scent is heavy with contentment and satiation, but beneath that, he smells like _Castiel_ , like his mate. The first thing he manages to say is, “Oh my god.”

Castiel presses a kiss to the fresh mating bite on his neck. “Dean, there are some blasphemies I can ignore, but I will ask that you please do not mention my Father while we are tied together.”

Dean stiffens minutely. “Tied?” he parrots. “Is that why you’re…” He clenches around Castiel’s cock in emphasis, eliciting a moan and another generous spurt of come.

Castiel tightens his hand on Dean’s hip to prevent him from repeating the action. “Please don’t do that,” he says. “But yes, my knot will keep us tied together for some time. It is a part of angelic physiology.”

Dean nods minutely. “And you bit me because…?”

“I apologize, I should have forewarned you,” Castiel replies sheepishly. “The bite is part of the mating bond.”

“Awesome,” Dean huffs, his voice layered with sarcasm. He then asks, “So how long will we be stuck like this?”

“My knot should go down in at least an hour, perhaps longer. First matings last longer than usual. You are welcome to sleep, if you would like.”

Dean blows out a long breath. “Alright, nap-time it is.” He twists slightly so he can look Castiel in the eye, smirking. “Then maybe a round two?”

Castiel chuckles and kisses his temple. “I believe that can be arranged.”

“Good,” Dean says with a grin. He lays down again and snuggles backwards into Castiel’s hold. Within minutes, he is out like a light.

Castiel smiles as he watches his mate, gently running a hand through his sandy-brown hair. He had never imagined he would find his true mate—if he even had one—but now that he is here, he cannot imagine it any other way. Dean is everything he could have asked for in an omega.

The thought trips Castiel up for a moment. Dean is his mate, but he is not his _omega_ , despite how perfectly he fits the role, as if he were raised in it as an angel would have been. Dean is still human, and his humanity brings other factors to the table.

But what had Gabriel said back at the club? He told Castiel that, after they mated, Dean would develop angelic traits ‘where it counts’.

What does that mean?

Dean shifts in his sleep, pressing back even more into Castiel, and Castiel sighs. Dean is beautiful when he sleeps.

He will speak with Gabriel tomorrow, he decides. It can wait until tomorrow.

For now, he has a mate to attend to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, chapter 2! I'm shooting to regularly update this story on Mondays (by pacific standard time, at least), so keep an eye out for that in the future.
> 
> Warning for actual plot. (Whaaat?)

Castiel does not need sleep, but he manages to fall into something of a doze for several hours while Dean sleeps. His knot deflated after about an hour and a half, but even after pulling out he remained tucked up against Dean’s back, his arm draped over Dean’s side and his hand curled over his abdomen.

This, right here, with his mate’s body sleep-warm and lax against his own, is easily one of the happiest moments of Castiel’s long life.

Sunlight slowly begins filtering into the motel room from around the window coverings, illuminating the room by degrees. The brighter the room becomes, the more Dean twitches in his sleep, rising to consciousness. Part of Castiel wants to hurry Dean along in his wake-up process, itching to see those green eyes again, but he forces himself to be patient.

Eventually, Dean wakes enough to be bothered by the lighting in the room, and rolls onto his stomach with a groan, burying his face in the pillow. The movement breaks skin-contact with Castiel, leaving a few empty inches between their bodies. Dean doesn’t seem to notice, too busy grumbling incoherently into the pillow, mostly speaking gibberish that seems to amount to a dislike of mornings.

Castiel hums in amusement and leans over to press a lingering kiss to the back of Dean’s shoulder, below the still-sensitive mark of the mating bite. “Perhaps I could get you some coffee?” he says lowly, sliding closer to return their bodies to alignment. The separation bothered him more than he cares to admit.

Dean tenses minutely at Castiel’s touch, but before Castiel can even begin to assess what went wrong, Dean relaxes again, pressing their bodies more closely together. Without removing his face from the pillow, he mumbles, “Coffee’s good. Not yet, though, you’re warm.”

“I can be quick,” Castiel whispers in reply, nuzzling the side of Dean’s head in hopes of coaxing him upwards. He flexes his wings against his back, ready to put them to use and pull himself across time and space as soon as he has Dean’s go-ahead. He stretches one of them up and over his own body to fan across Dean like a blanket.

“Not yet,” Dean repeats, finally turning his face out of the pillow. The angle allows him to kiss Castiel easily, his lips slow and lazy. He licks across the seam of Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel does not hesitate to part his lips and grant him entrance.

As they kiss, Dean extracts one of his arms from beneath the bed covers and lays it over the top of Castiel’s wing. He threads his fingers into the layers of black feathers and scratches his fingertips along the flesh they fuse with, inching his way from a space near the primary feathers toward the softer feathers at the base.

When Dean’s wandering fingers skim over the top of one of his glands, Castiel gasps. Dean, of course, notices this reaction, and focuses his fingers on the gland within his reach, coaxing an obscene amount of oil out of it.

Castiel writhes under his touch, alternately growling and gasping into Dean’s mouth. He knew his glands were sensitive, and had even fingered them himself on more than one curious occasion, but he had no idea it could be like _this_.

Dean’s hand quickly becomes coated with Castiel’s oil, and he pulls his hand back to inspect it. He looks at it curiously, sniffs it, then—Castiel lets out a strangled, unidentifiable sound—darts his tongue out to _taste_ it. His eyebrows twitch upward in surprise, and he sinks the whole finger into his mouth, sucking at the oil without reservation and moaning in pleasure, the pink of his tongue visible in flashes.

With a twitch of his wings, Castiel disappears and reappears a millisecond later, turning Dean onto his back and straddling his hips, pinning his wrists to the mattress on either side of his head. Dean gapes up at Castiel in surprise, but Castiel pays him no mind and instead begins the endeavor of licking the flavor of his own oil out of Dean’s mouth.

Dean does not seem to object. In fact, the display of dominance strengthens the scent of arousal steadily filling the room, and Castiel feels Dean’s cock twitch where it presses against his thigh.

Castiel slides his hands down Dean’s arms and down to his torso—keeping his wrists in place with bands of grace—and traces his fingertips over the lines of Dean’s anti-possession tattoo, then across the buds of his nipples. He repeats his trick from the night before and allows grace to pour through the tips of his fingers, electrifying his every touch along Dean’s body. He teases his nipples for only a moment before sliding off of his hips and relocating to the space between Dean’s legs, spreading them and pressing a finger into his hole.

Dean arches into Castiel’s touch and whines high in his throat, pulling uselessly against the restraints of grace on his wrists. “Cas, _please_ …”

Castiel smiles up at Dean and chastely kisses the head of his cock in consolation, taking the opportunity to slip a second finger inside of him alongside the first. With his grace easing the way, it is not long before Dean is appropriately prepared to take him.

As soon as Dean is ready, Castiel releases the grace holding his hands and lets himself be yanked by his hair into a bruising kiss, which is scarcely more than a clash of teeth and tongue. Dean wraps his legs tightly around Castiel’s waist, hooking his ankles together at the small of Castiel’s back, providing the perfect angle for Castiel to push in and bottom out in one smooth glide.

Dean groans at the sensation of being filled, his fingers tightening in Castiel’s hair. Castiel cocoons them both in his wings while he waits for the go-ahead to move, which eventually comes in the form of a small nod and a tug on his hair.

From there, the room is filled with a symphony of creaking bedsprings and slamming headboards, grunts and groans, _Dean_ s and _Harder, Cas, please_ s. Their bodies work together in perfect tandem, giving and taking with ease, and when he hits his orgasm, painting both of their stomachs with come, it is with Castiel’s knot pressing against the inside of his rim, pumping seed into him.

Castiel slumps over Dean’s body, resting their foreheads together and struggling to rein in his erratic breathing and heart rate. Their position is not an ideal one for being tied together, so once he has regained a modicum of control, he flaps his wings minutely and switches their positions, leaving Dean laying heavily over his body, his legs straddling Castiel’s hips. The new arrangement is not ideal considering it pinches his wings awkwardly between his back and the mattress, but he can deal with it.

Dean lets out a soft cry of surprise when Castiel moves them, gripping Castiel’s shoulders tightly as he pushes himself into a sitting position. “Fuck, man,” he says, his voice scratchy from overuse, “give me a warning next time, would ya?”

“Apologies,” Castiel hums. His eyes slide closed as he relaxes into the bed, Dean’s weight a steady reassurance over him. “We will be like this for some time, so I wanted you to be comfortable. Would you like to take a nap?” He cracks an eye to watch for Dean’s response.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. I already got more than my usual four hours of sleep, so I’m set for a while.” He absently runs a hand across Castiel’s chest as he speaks, tracing nonsensical patterns with his fingertips. After several long minutes of this, he says, “Can, uh…” He clears his throat. “Can we talk for a bit?”

Castiel frowns. His mate sounds hesitant, as though he expects to be refused. “Of course, Dean. We can speak about anything you wish.”

Dean nods, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “It’s just… What the hell are we doing, man?” he asks, the question tumbling out on a single breath. “I mean, you show up and say you’re my _soulmate_ —true mate, whatever you called it—but what does that even _mean_? And why do I get the feeling I couldn’t tell you no even if I tried? Yesterday happened so fucking fast, Cas, I don’t even _know_ you, I just don’t _know_ —”

Castiel sits up abruptly, reaching to cradle Dean’s face in his hands and hugging him tightly with his wings, automatic responses to the clear distress souring his scent. Dean’s heartrate is erratic and his eyes, too, are wild with fear, though they focus on Castiel when he leans in to capture his gaze.

 _A panic attack_ , the logical part of Castiel’s mind identifies. It is not severe, thankfully, but it is a panic attack nonetheless.

“Dean,” he begins, exuding as much calm as possible, “there is nothing for you to fear from our relationship, I swear it. I already told you who I am and that I came to be at the club yesterday through my brother’s doing, but I will happily tell you anything more you wish to know. _Anything_ , do you understand that? Our status as true mates—soulmates, if you prefer—means that we were meant for one another, in every sense possible.” Dean’s distress decreases steadily as Castiel talks, and Castiel presses a firm kiss to the center of his forehead. “I have loved you since the moment I saw you, mind, body, and soul, just as I was made to. Just as much as you are mine, I am yours.”

Dean swallows roughly and asks, his voice thin and barely-there, “Why do you make me feel so out of control?”

“My knowledge of angel-human relationships are admittedly lacking,” Castiel replies, “but I assume it is a biological response to finding your true mate. Angels have physical responses as well, though mine is currently muted, likely due to the fact that you are human. When two angels who are true mates meet, an alpha will go into a rut, an omega will go into a heat, and a beta will fall into a muted version of whichever of those is a biologically-appropriate counterpart for their mate. I am having a reaction to you without going into a rut, just as you are having a reaction to me without going into heat. However, as your heat would have to be what triggers my rut, your human physiology is likely trying to simulate a heat—an extended state in which, in essence, you have an insatiable need for sex.”

Dean contemplates this in silence for several moments, his eyes unfocused while he absently strokes his hand over several of Castiel’s feathers resting between their bodies. Eventually he raises his gaze to Castiel’s and says, the hint of a smile on his face, “So what you’re saying is, I’m losing my damn mind because your dick is like my own personal brand of catnip?”

Castiel chuckles. “Yes, I suppose you could put it that way.”

“Awesome,” Dean scoffs half-heartedly. “Guess it’s good to know it’s my own brain fucking with me, not you or some ugly son of a bitch waiting in the shadows.”

“Were you so convinced that that was the case?”

“Cas, you get that I’m a hunter, right? Shit starts happening that I can’t explain, I usually have a problem on my hands.” Dean fidgets slightly in Castiel’s lap, looking down. “You’re an angel, for fuck’s sake, you know what’s out there, man. When shit hits the fan, I’m usually caught standing downwind. Better yet, a lot of times I _am_ the problem.”

Castiel catches Dean’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts his head back up. When their eyes meet, Castiel’s breath catches—he had not meant to see it, had not even been looking for Dean’s soul within those green depths, but it is projected too clearly to ignore, that subject he has been dancing around.

“You don’t think you deserve to be loved.”

Dean flinches as though he were struck, and Castiel is sure he would be physically distancing himself if he were not kept in place by the knot, though that likely will not hold true for much longer. He yanks his chin from Castiel’s grasp and looks away, not bothering to pretend to refute the statement.

Castiel feels his heart fracture in his chest.

How could this beautiful man not see his value? His capacity to love, and to be loved? Anyone could see how brightly his soul burns, and yet it collapses in on itself like a star gone supernova.

Castiel inhales shakily. “Dean.” There is a flash of green. “Good things _do_ happen. The events of the last twenty-four hours prove that. I have existed for millennia in anticipation of meeting you, and I understand you have not waited in an equal capacity. I understand that you have reservations. All I ask is that you do not belittle my love for you.”

Dean huffs, still sounding too disbelieving for Castiel’s comfort, but does not otherwise reply. He stares at nothing in particular for a while, his eyes unfocused as he sorts through whatever thoughts are plaguing him. Castiel allows him the time he needs, and sets his hand rubbing back and forth across the plane of his mate’s back. Dean relaxes a bit more in acknowledgement, and after a few more minutes, shifts to rest his forehead against the crook of Castiel’s neck. He doesn’t fall back to sleep, but regardless, he remains silent.

When, nearly half an hour later, Castiel’s knot finally deflates enough for Dean to slide free, he does so immediately. All signs of his somber attitude dissipate as he pushes his way free of his mate’s wings and practically jumps from the bed. He heads toward the bathroom without a backwards glance at Castiel, saying over his shoulder, “I’m gonna take a shower.” Castiel is about to respond—though he is unsure _how_ to respond—when Dean reaches the bathroom door and pauses, saying more gently, “I think I was promised coffee, though?”

Castiel snaps his jaw closed with an audible _clack_. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “Of course, Dean.”

The bathroom door closes between them, and mere moments later the rattling sounds of the shoddy plumbing fills the room.

This is Dean’s way of demanding space, and if space is what he needs, Castiel will grant it. He knows he unloaded quite a bit of difficult information onto Dean—it is only fair that he gives him time to work through it.

Castiel stands from the bed and dresses in a blink, donning a pair of blue jeans and a plain, black t-shirt—it is arguably the most casual attire he has ever worn of his own accord, but it is similar to what he saw Dean wear, so he thinks it appropriate. If Gabriel could see him now…

Gabriel. Right. Castiel should speak with him.

He sends his brother a quick prayer: **_Can we meet somewhere? I have approximately ten minutes before Dean is finished in the shower._**

Gabriel responds right away. **_Not showering with him? Trouble in paradise already, little bro?_**

**_I’m supposed to get him coffee. Do you have a recommendation?_ **

In return, Gabriel only sends him an impression of a location. Castiel flies there immediately, concealing his wings upon landing, and finds himself at a table in a small café in France.

“Hey, bro!” Gabriel says brightly, appearing across from him. He rolls a lollipop between his teeth. “How’s the mated life treatin’ ya?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Don’t start that,” he says flatly. “Can you tell me what you know about angel-human matings?”

Gabriel’s expression turns serious. “Dean-o not taking it well?”

Castiel flinches. He had hoped Gabriel would not see to the root of the problem so quickly. “Not exactly.”

“Shit.” Gabriel sighs and rubs a hand across his face. “Just like with an angel, the bonding couldn’t have occurred without his consent, so at least _that_ isn’t a problem. But it would still be easier if he were completely on board…”

“ _What_ would be easier, Gabe? You haven’t told me _anything_.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows shoot up, and he looks at Castiel approvingly. “Damn, Cassie, I think that mate of yours might be a good influence. Or maybe that’s just the sex?” He bounces his eyebrows pointedly. “But really, when was the last time you called me ‘Gabe’? Or wore _normal clothes_ instead of that awful business suit? I mean, I know you like the trench coat, but has it occurred to you that you can wear it with normal outfits, too? Not that I recommend it—”

“ _Gabriel_ ,” Castiel interrupts. “Can you please answer my question? I don’t have much time.”

Gabriel flaps a hand. “Yeah, whatever. You just know I’m right. _Anyways_. The most important thing for you to know is that Human-Boy is going to turn into an omega. He’ll be, like, half angel. I think he could actually get to about full-angel status if you shared your grace with him, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You know how dangerous that is.”

“Half angel…” Castiel repeats under his breath. The idea is not an unpleasant one, he must admit. He shakes his head to clear that thought away and asks Gabriel, “How long until this begins? Is there no alternative? I cannot imagine Dean will take kindly to the idea of a species change.”

“It’s already started, bro,” Gabriel says with a shrug. “It’ll take some time to finish out, though, at least a few months, I’d think. You have some time to get him used to the idea.”

Castiel nods his understanding. A few months. He can work with a few months. Although…

“How long do I have before I must return to Heaven?”

Gabriel bites clean through the remainder of the lollipop, separating the hard sugar from the paper stick. The stick dissolves from existence, and he crunches the candy obnoxiously between his teeth. In the midst of his chewing, he says, “Don’t worry about it, bro. You’ve done more than enough work in your lifetime, taking a vacation won’t kill you. Besides, _I’m_ your commanding officer now as of today, remember? The time you’ll spend here with Human-Boy doesn’t mean shit in the grand scheme of things, so if you need a few decades off, so be it.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You’ll let me spend _decades_ here with Dean? Are you joking?”

Gabriel grins. “Do I _look_ like I’m joking, Cassie?” he says, emphasizing his point with a wink.

“You always look like you’re joking,” Castiel replies, glaring at his brother. While the other archangels are always solemn at the best of times, Gabriel has a trickster streak a mile wide. He has even gone so far as to play the role when enjoying down time on Earth, harassing troublesome humans and giving them their ‘just desserts’, as he calls it.

He doesn’t often send pranks in Castiel’s direction—after a backfired trick and a miserable decade for which he will always be teasingly called _Rainbow_ by those under his command, Gabriel learned to steer clear of Castiel—but this time, what Gabriel is saying sounds too good to be true.

“Fine, fine.” Gabriel raises his hands in a show of defeat. “I fuck around a lot, I get it. But not here, alright? Call it favoritism if you want, but I’m giving you time off. However much you need. When you and Dean-o are ready to move in together Upstairs, we’ll still be there.” He pauses, tilting his head in consideration. “Y’know. Probably. Hopefully. You get my point. And haven’t I always told you not to look a gift horse in the mouth? The fuck is wrong with you? Just take your damn vacation.”

Castiel huffs softly in amusement. “I am fairly certain I have never heard you use that expression before, Gabriel.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m using it now. Vacation—you capisce?”

“Yes, I capisce.”

“Good.” Gabriel stands from the table, rolling his neck. “We done here, then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at Castiel.

Castiel stands as well, and envelops Gabriel in a tight hug. “Thank you, Gabe.”

Gabriel squeezes Castiel in return, and when he says, “No problem, bro,” his voice is thick with emotion. When he steps back a moment later, his trademark smirk is securely in place. He raises a hand and snaps his fingers, materializing two coffee cups and an array of breakfast foods on the table. “For your mate,” he says, and before Castiel can thank him again, he vanishes from the café.

Castiel flies himself and the food back across the globe to the Los Angeles motel room he left Dean in, depositing the goods on the table in the sitting area. After the evening sun that lit the café, the motel room is startlingly dim—Castiel _did_ blow out all of the light sources in the main room, after all, but the window coverings have been pulled aside to allow light to enter.

Dean’s scent is… stale. That is the first thing Castiel notices. It is not _stale_ as in the sense that he is gone, but _stale_ as in dimmed, a scent below happiness or even neutrality, but not quite to full distress. _Devoid_ , almost. Castiel looks up to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring intently at a cellphone clasped tightly in his hands. His hair stands up at odd angles, yet is clearly still wet from his shower.

“Dean?” Castiel hedges. “Is something wrong?”

Dean startles at the sound of his voice, likely not having heard him return, and whirls to face him, an attack clearly at the ready. However, whatever he had planned on saying falls away when he sees Castiel next to the table. His eyes roam Castiel’s form for several moments, and when he finally meets Castiel’s gaze, he blushes profusely.

“I… Sorry, man,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You scared the shit out of me.” His eyes alight on the breakfast display and he leaps to his feet, saying excitedly, “You go out for coffee, and you come back with all of _this_?”

Castiel steps back to allow Dean better access to the table, wringing his hands together nervously. “I apologize for taking so long. Is this alright? I don’t have much experience with human foods, breakfast least of all, so—”

Dean had immediately picked through the plates and selected a chocolate-drizzled éclair, and proceeded to shove half of it into his mouth, cutting off Castiel’s ramblings with a pleased moan. Castiel’s eyes instantly fall to Dean’s mouth, and he watches rapturously as Dean’s lips and throat work around the oversized bite.

Castiel clears his own throat and forces himself to look away.

It is possible that he is closer to being in a rut than he initially realized.

“Cas,” Dean says once he has swallowed the donut and washed it down with a sip of coffee, “this shit is _fucking amazing_.” He takes another bite of the éclair, this one more manageable. Around the food in his mouth, he asks, “Where did you even get all of this?”

“France.”

Dean nearly chokes on his éclair. “ _France_?” he repeats, incredulous. “I asked for coffee, so you flew to _France_? You know there’s a Starbucks practically right next door to the motel, right?”

Castiel shrugs. Even if Gabriel had not taken him to that specific French café, Castiel would likely have done his best to exceed Dean’s expectations.

Dean chuckles as he finishes off the last of his pastry, hooking his arm over Castiel’s shoulders and hauling him in to deliver a sloppy kiss to his temple. Castiel’s heart kicks into overdrive at the gesture, even more so when Dean says, “You know what? I think I’ll keep you.”

Although he is fully aware of the joking nature of Dean’s words, Castiel replies with a sly smile, “That is the idea, yes.”

Dean’s responding laughter is one of the most beautiful sounds Castiel has ever heard.

They sit together at the table while Dean eats his breakfast, but despite the comfortable silence settled between them, it is obvious that Dean is still on-edge, regularly glancing towards his phone. Castiel wants to ask him about it, but he sips at his own coffee and bides his time.

Once Dean has pushed away his empty coffee mug and reclined back in his chair, an impressive five pastries later, Castiel decides to go for it.

“Dean, you seemed rather… concerned about something when I first returned. May I ask what it is that is bothering you?”

As if reminded, Dean grabs his phone and stares at the screen, clicking the display on then off again and exhaling heavily. “Yeah, I uh…” He clears his throat and looks at Castiel hesitantly. “My dad’s on a hunting trip, and I haven’t heard from him for almost three weeks now. That’s not totally unheard of with him, you know? He’s done this mine and Sam’s whole lives. But ever since I started hunting on my own a few years back, he’s been better about calling, seeing how _I’m_ doing, at least. He thinks I’m on a hunt right now, so he should have called by now, but he hasn’t in long enough that I’m worried.”

“That is understandable,” Castiel says, nodding seriously. “What was he hunting? Do you think he is still hunting the creature, or do you suspect foul play?”

He purposefully doesn’t mention the very real possibility that John Winchester was simply killed by his quarry. Dean would likely not respond well to the suggestion.

“He—” Dean hesitates. “He was hunting a known suspect, of sorts—I won’t get into it, but long story short, this thing is bad news.” He scrubs his hands across his face. “Fuck. If Dad’s gone, I’m gonna have to tell Sammy, and that means I’m gonna have to _go_ to him… Son of a bitch.”

Castiel frowns as he parses through the meaning of Dean’s words, suddenly remembering the sense of loneliness pervading Dean’s soul at his brother’s expense. “Sam is your brother, correct? Do the two of you not get along?”

“No, we get along fine,” Dean corrects. “But Sam… He didn’t want to be in the life, wanted to go to school and be a real member of society and shit, and Dad got pissed—said Sam was unappreciative, didn’t understand the cause, didn’t—” He cuts himself off there, shaking his head, and continues instead with, “A lot of bad shit was said that night, and in the end, Sam left. I haven’t seen him since.”

Ah. That is the cause of the loneliness, then. Dean feels as if Sam abandoned him, and he sees his brother’s absence as… a personal failure, perhaps? Yes, that would explain that particular maelstrom in Dean’s soul.

Dean looks at his phone again, muttering to himself, “Fuck. Now I have to go to fucking Palo Alto to tell Sam what’s up, and that means I have to quit my job at the _club_ , and all because Dad had to be a fucking martyr—”

“Dean.”

Dean immediately stops his ramblings and looks up to Castiel with wide eyes, as if he forgot Castiel was there. He folds in on himself, like he is trying to make himself appear smaller. “Sorry, Cas, I know you don’t care about any of this shit. I do have to go to Palo Alto, though, if you—”

“I’ll go with you,” Castiel interrupts. “I could even fly you there, if you would like.” He shakes out one of his wings in emphasis.

Dean’s lips twitch with a smile, though he appears hesitant to let his glee show. “You’ll go with?” he asks.

Castiel smiles, his eyes crinkling. “Of course, Dean. We are mates, after all. I will do whatever I can to assist.”

Now Dean is grinning in full, and his scent radiates pure joy. “Goddamn, dude, you’re fucking _great_! Not that I’m planning on taking you up on the offer to fly—if we go anywhere, we take my Baby—but the fact that you’re willing go along with this shit-show…” His expression softens. “Thank you. Seriously.”

And in that moment, Castiel’s heart breaks for Dean Winchester just a little bit more. Even over such a small thing as visiting his estranged brother—and, yes, a potential search for his missing father, but that is hardly a burden, either—makes Dean fear that he is going to be abandoned, left behind in exchange for something better.

If Castiel were somehow dishonest in saying he loves Dean, seeing the vulnerability he hides inside would render it difficult to remain so.

He stands and steps around the table into Dean’s space, where he leans to capture his lips in a gentle kiss. “I can assure you, Dean,” he says against his lips, “there is little I wouldn’t do for you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! Here are some things you should know about this chapter and the plot from here on out:
> 
> This is NOT canon!verse, and as such, a few things are different. Primarily:  
> 1) The Winchesters already have a basic knowledge of demons, and already have anti-possession tattoos. They don't have much experience in this category, but they _do_ know.  
>  2) Dean and Sam are NOT the vessels of Michael and Lucifer. In fact, forget everything you know about angels and vessels. Just throw it in the trash. Do it.
> 
> Additionally, shout out to [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com), my awesome new beta! She made this chapter extra great.

Dean packs his possessions into the back of his car—a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, he tells Castiel several times—and checks out of his motel room before driving both he and Castiel back to the club. The Pit, as Castiel is not pleased to learn the club is called, is a far more dismal building in the daylight than it had been at the height of its weekend night-life.

The interior of the club is even less appealing than the outside, when seen under the full lights. The carpet is dark yet noticeably stained in places, and the furniture is visibly low-quality. Additionally, the air is frigid, reminding Castiel a little too much of his brother who lives in the _actual_ Pit.

Of course, Lucifer had not always been cold—literally or figuratively. Before he fell, he had been beautiful, warm and bright even in the worst of times. Other than Gabriel, he had been one of Castiel’s favorite brothers.

But then came the humans, and everything changed.

“Cas?”

Castiel startles, having been unaware of just how deeply ingrained in his thoughts he had become. Dean stares at him in concern, an eyebrow raised in question, but Castiel waves him off. Now is not the time to reminisce.

He discards his thoughts of the past and follows Dean down a back hallway, on the opposite side of the stage running parallel to the hallway with the private rooms. Only the last door on the right is open, yellow light spilling into the dim hall.

Dean steps into the room and greets the squat, greasy man seated at a desk within. “Hey, Al, you got a minute?”

Al looks up from his computer and frowns at the sight of Dean and Castiel in the doorway. He eyes them with barely-restrained contempt for several moments before reclining in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Lawrence. What can I do for you?”

Castiel vaguely recalls Gabriel having used the name ‘Lawrence’ in reference to Dean when he sent Castiel in for his private dance, but Gabriel also told him it was a fake name. It confuses Castiel to hear Dean’s boss use it.

Dean, however, is unperturbed. “I’m quitting,” he says. “I’m leaving town and I’m not coming back.”

Al sits forward, his expression darkening. “Like hell you are,” he spits. “You signed a contract that says you can’t quit without a minimum of two weeks’ notice.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “No, I didn’t, actually. If you pulled your head out of your ass for two minutes, you would remember that I specifically told you when I was hired that I didn’t agree to that condition.”

Al stands from his chair suddenly, fists clenched at his sides. He looks ready to attack, but before he gets the chance, Castiel places himself between him and Dean, growling deep in his chest—this piece of filth just _physically threatened_ his _mate_ , he is _well_ within his rights—but Dean stops him from advancing with a hand to his shoulder and a subtle head shake.

Al looks between them incredulously. “Is _this_ the reason you’re quitting?” he demands, pointing a finger at Castiel. “You got some juiced-up new boy-toy and what, you’re whoring yourself out to him? Well answer me this—how much he buy you for, huh? You better hope he’s paying more for your ass than I was, Lawrence, because I don’t give a _shit_ what you say, you aren’t getting out of those fees for breaking your contract, you bastard.”

In a flash, Castiel flies across the room on invisible wings and knees Al in the groin. Then, even as the man still struggles to comprehend what is happening, Castiel slams the palm of his hand to his forehead and sends him into a deep sleep, simultaneously erasing every memory he has of Dean. His soul, when Castiel makes contact with it, is a revolting, black oil stain that makes the angel’s skin crawl.

And if Castiel ensures that Al’s sleep is filled with nightmares, well, no one needs to know.

Dean gapes. “Cas—”

Castiel flits back across the room and grips him by the shoulder to fly them both out to stand next to the Impala. He opts to leave his wings exposed when he lands, too agitated to focus on restraining them.

“Oh, shit!” Dean’s knees nearly give out from under him and he grips Castiel for support, though only for a moment before staggering backwards, placing several feet between them. His scent is a tumultuous blend of emotions, impossible for Castiel to decipher. “Why the _fuck_ did you do that?” he demands.

“Why did I do _what_ , Dean?” Castiel growls in return, advancing toward his mate. “Why did I become angry after hearing that man _slander_ and _disrespect_ you?” He backs Dean against the Impala and boxes him in with his arms, flaring his wings high. “Why did I neutralize him before he became _violent_? Please, Dean, tell me what I did that so clearly _displeased_ you.”

Contrary to the heat Castiel expected to receive in return, Dean smiles and quirks an eyebrow. “ _Actually_ , hotshot, what I _meant_ was _why the fuck did you fly us out_? We could have walked, you know. Al was already knocked out, and there was no one else in the building. It _really_ wouldn’t have been a big deal.” He grins. “But, uh, sounds like you’ve got a few frustrations pent up in that angel head of yours. Want to get some of that off your chest there, buddy?”

Castiel slams his hands against the Impala, rocking it in place and only barely refraining from denting the metal. “Damn it, Dean! Why are you not bothered by how that man treated you?”

“Because it’s a job, Cas,” Dean answers on a sigh. His scent turns bitter. “I know you don’t have a whole lot of experience with the sex industry or its affiliates from up on whatever cloud you came from, but that’s how it is in a lot of places— _especially_ in places willing to hire dancers like me for only a few weeks at a time. Al’s joint was one of the seedier I’ve worked for, but there’s still been worse.”

“Then why do you do it, Dean? If what I just witnessed is the standard, can it truly be worth it?”

“It’s worth it!” Dean snaps, abruptly losing his calm. “It will _always_ be worth it! I know you have some fucked-up sense of responsibility for me now, I get that, but do _not_ question my motives, _Castiel_.”

Castiel’s wings twitch at the use of his full name. He is accustomed to hearing it from his brothers and sisters on a daily basis—only Gabriel and a handful of others are in the habit of using a nickname with him—yet it already sounds so _wrong_ falling from his mate’s lips, especially when laced with such animosity.

After several moments of continued glaring between the two of them, Dean shoves his way out of Castiel’s arms and gets into the driver’s seat of the Impala, slamming the door behind him. The engine roars to life soon after, its rumblings already a familiar sound.

The anger drains out of Castiel all at once, leaving him with only guilt in its place. His wings droop from his shoulders, the tips resting against the pavement. It had not been his intention to upset Dean, nor to insult him in whatever way Castiel had clearly managed.

He never did get an answer to his first question, though. Regardless of whether or not it is worth it, _why_ does Dean do it? Why does he subject himself to that?

Dean honks the Impala’s horn impatiently. Castiel moves to the passenger seat with a flick of his wings, neatly tucking the appendages back into the pocket of reality in which he hides them.

Dean gets on the highway toward Palo Alto without a word to Castiel. He doesn’t turn the radio on.

Two hours slip by before Castiel decides to break the silence. “It would have saved a lot of time if I had flown us there, you know,” he says, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. “And if I concentrated, I could probably take the Impala, as well.”

Dean does not respond.

 _Damn it_.

He sighs and tries again. “I apologize for overstepping my bounds, Dean.”

Without warning, Dean whips the car over to the side of the road and cuts the engine. He turns in his seat to face Castiel, who is privately beginning to panic. This is it. He really did go too far. Dean is going to request he break the mating bond, he’s going to want Castiel out of his life—

Dean exhales heavily. “Damn it, Cas, you didn’t _overstep your bounds_ , alright? You just…” He rubs a hand across his face and meets Castiel’s eyes. “I just don’t like to talk about what I do, alright? No one knows, and no one _can_ know, you got that?”

Castiel nods. “I understand.”

“Good.” Dean’s expression softens further, and he reaches out to rest a hand on Castiel’s knee. “I… I’m not actually pissed at you, you know. So you can stop with the kicked-puppy look.”

A weight Castiel had not realized he was carrying lifts from his chest, and he nearly gasps—or cries, because he’s a live-wire of emotion and really doesn’t know what to expect anymore—with relief. He was also not aware that he was doing any sort of ‘look,’ though he will take Dean’s word for it.

His inner alpha was practically having a panic attack, after all. Whatever a ‘kicked-puppy’ look looks like, Dean is probably accurate in comparing him to it.

The moment Castiel’s primary source of distress is removed from the situation, Dean wrinkles his nose, sniffing at the air— _scenting_. Castiel waits with bated breath, expecting a comment or question or _something_ , but Dean does not voice his thoughts.

Considering _that_ is a conversation Castiel wants to have even less than their current one, he asks, “If I am not the cause of your upset, what is?”

It takes a moment for Dean to refocus in on the conversation, obviously still caught up in whatever scenting abilities he has begun to develop, but when he does, he removes his hand from Castiel’s knee.

Castiel instantly misses his touch, even lessened though it was through the denim of his jeans.

“I was pissed because I hate _why_ I have to whore myself out,” Dean says. “Hunting isn’t exactly a lucrative gig, Cas, and the fact of the matter is, I need the money. People don’t like to admit it, but strippers make _serious_ cash.”

“Why do you need the money, Dean?”

Dean looks away. “Because John Winchester is a shitty father,” he answers drily.

The words only carry a partial truth, Castiel can sense. He grips Dean’s hand in reassurance, lacing their fingers together on the seat between them. “Dean, tell me why.”

Dean stares at their twined hands, giving Castiel’s a light squeeze. Eventually, he says quietly, “I do it for Sam, alright?”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Dean replies. He sounds more tired than anything. “I told you Sam left a few years back, right? He was accepted into a college—Stanford, one of the top in the country. Damn kid wants to be a lawyer. I know he got a full ride, he told me as much before he left, but his scholarships only cover tuition itself. He still has to pay for food, housing, and whatever else he needs.”

A picture begins to form in Castiel’s mind. “Since your father disapproved, you took it upon yourself to cover these fees,” he says.

Dean nods. “Pretty much, yeah. But I kind of had to, you know? That’s how our society is supposed to work—kids grow up and go to college, and their families support them however they can. Usually that would mean a _parent_ , but since Dad swore off all of it…” Dean shrugs. “I’m all Sammy’s got.”

Ah. So Dean’s career path could in fact be traced back to John Winchester’s poor parenting abilities. That explains Dean’s previous statement.

But there is still a piece of this story that is unexplained.

“Dean, you said no one knows what kind of work you do, correct?” When Dean nods, Castiel continues, “Where does Sam think you get the money from?”

Dean grins sheepishly. “I may have forged a few documents to make it look like another scholarship-type deal. He has no clue it’s from me.”

Castiel cannot help but smile. The solution may not be the best one, but it is a very _Dean_ solution. It’s somewhat endearing, actually.

It is also much easier now for Castiel to understand why Dean reacted so strongly to a questioning of his ‘motives’. Dean feels responsible for aiding his brother’s success in life, despite the fact that that same brother left him behind—another event which had a lasting effect on Dean.

“Also,” Dean says suddenly, his grin widening, turning more genuine, “while we’re having sharing-and-caring hour, I should probably tell you that you freaking out on Al was probably one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life. Just so you know.”

A startled laugh escapes Castiel. “Is that so?”

Dean nods seriously and twists the key in the Impala’s ignition. “Yup. Very hot. Super sexy. Almost popped a boner in my boss’s office, and let me tell you, that would have been awkward as _fuck_.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel agrees with a smirk. As Dean gets them back driving northbound, Castiel relaxes into the seat for the first time in their journey, thinking over Dean’s confession. After a few moments of consideration, he says slyly, “I could have taken you in your boss’s office, if you had wanted.”

The Impala swerves drastically between lanes, earning several honks from agitated drivers around them. Dean corrects the vehicle, but his head sets itself on a constant swivel, alternating between watching the road and gawking at Castiel with wide, too-green eyes. Eventually, he manages to say, “You wouldn’t.”

Castiel shrugs.

“Cas!” Dean laughs incredulously. “I know you’re a horny bastard, but isn’t that a bit far?”

Apparently Dean is a bit of an exhibitionist, though, because arousal laces into his scent at Castiel’s implication. _Interesting_.

Castiel makes a mental note of that for later.

In answer to Dean’s question, he says, “Not particularly. I modified his memory anyway, so if we had had sex he would not have remembered having witnessed it in any capacity.”

“ _Whoa_ , hold up!” Dean exclaims, raising one of his hands from the steering wheel. “Did you just say you _modified Al’s memories_? As in, he doesn’t remember me… what? At all? No fucking way.”

“He has no memory of you,” Castiel confirms. “He would not even recognize you if he saw you. May I ask another question?”

“Goddamn, dude, that’s fucking _awesome_ ,” Dean says, more to himself than to Castiel. “But um… Yeah. Go for it.”

“I thought it was odd that he called you ‘Lawrence’ while you were speaking to him,” Castiel says, “but the same name was used throughout every memory I touched—Lawrence Allen. Why?”

“Well, I didn’t want him knowing my real name, did I?” Dean replies with a shrug. “Using my actual identity is risky for everyone involved. If I had used my real name and Al was pissed, he could have found me and made my life a living hell.” He pauses, considering his own words. “Or not, considering it already _is_. Whatever. You know what I mean. But also, if I used my real name, other people could get involved, find out where I’m working. Since I don’t let anyone _know_ what I do, I’m sure you can see how that could be a problem.”

Yes, that is understandable. Castiel has long since learned that humans can be resourceful when motivated, so any number of people may have been able to track Dean, with the proper information.

He next asks, “Why ‘Lawrence’?”

“I…” Dean’s grip momentarily tightens on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. He lowers his voice several octaves and finishes, “I was born in Lawrence, Kansas. That’s where it all began.”

It’s an ominous statement to say the least, and Castiel desperately wants to ask what it means. Before he can get the chance, however, Dean reaches forward and turns the radio on, cranking the volume of a guitar riff up to a level that prohibits any further conversation.

Considering how much other information he just gained, Castiel decides not to push his luck. Dean will tell him more when he is ready, and for that, he can wait.

~

Five minutes outside of Palo Alto’s city limits, Castiel stiffens.

What was that? He would have sworn he heard—

Yes, there it was again. It is a high-pitched whine, almost like a scream, broadcasted across localized prayer channels. It sounds distant and muted, but Castiel can tell that it originates from within the city. It is unlikely that any angel further away than Castiel himself can hear it.

“Dean.”

Dean jolts at the sound of Castiel’s voice, likely caught up in his own worries about his upcoming reunion with Sam. When he sees Castiel’s state of worry, however, he grows visibly concerned, turning the already-quiet radio off completely. “Cas?” he asks. “You alright there, buddy?”

Castiel sits forward, peering at the twilit city through the windows of the Impala. The whine is constant, a low buzz in the back of his mind. It doesn’t even seem human, despite the fact that no other creature should have the ability to reach an angel through prayer in the first place.

And that doesn’t change the fact that it sounds _wrong_ , deeply so. It both sets Castiel’s teeth on edge and makes his stomach drop.

“Cas, man, tell me what’s going on.”

Castiel stretches his grace and his senses as far as they will go, attempting to locate the source of the disturbance without leaving Dean unprotected. Whatever this is, it is foul—Dean should not be left alone, not if Castiel can avoid it.

“Castiel!”

Castiel whips to face Dean, startled by the frustration and worry pouring out of his mate in droves. Castiel had been ignoring him. He had not meant to, but that _sound_ is just so…

He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “Dean, something is wrong. Something is in this city that does not belong.”

Dean frowns. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t _know_ Dean,” Castiel snaps in return. He is still pushing himself to his limits, searching, searching for whatever it is—

There. A bead of black magic, the inky tendrils of a blocking spell.

“Demons,” he tells Dean. “A small legion has gathered. They’re staging something.”

Dean inhales sharply. He slips easily into the role of _hunter_ and asks, “How many?”

“Hundreds, at least.”

“ _Fuck_.” Dean presses his foot further down on the accelerator. “We have to find Sammy.”

“Where—”

Suddenly, the blocking spell and every trace of its existence vanish, along with the masses of demons. The whining prayer, too, cuts out, though not before escalating into a very real, very human scream.

“Cas?”

Castiel frowns. “They’re gone. All of them.”

“Gone?” Dean repeats. “What do you mean, gone? Where did they go?”

Three demonic presences make themselves known near the center of the city, moving rapidly with an unknown intent. Whatever was happening previously was preparation, Castiel realizes, and _this_ is the group assigned to carry out the strike.

“Dean, listen to me carefully,” Castiel says quickly, not wanting to allow the demons time to complete their mission. “I need to go, _now_. Continue driving to Sam’s. Do not make detours, do not attempt to follow me. I will find you and return when I can.”

“What—Cas, what the fuck? Wait—”

Castiel presses a quick kiss to Dean’s temple in reassurance, then spreads his wings and flies into the city. The falling dusk has darkened the streets considerably, but Castiel does not need to rely on human perception to track the demons to the apartment building they entered.

It takes only minor concentration for Castiel to render himself invisible to all beings—an extra precaution he decides to take until he knows what it is the demons are after. He flits through the building on silent wings, blind but to the scent of sulfur trailing in the demons’ wake.

He catches up to them on the third floor.                                                                                                      

The door to apartment 3F has been kicked open, leaving it hanging splintered and limp from its hinges. The scent of sulfur is stronger on the other side of the threshold, when Castiel steps across it, almost overpowering it its potency.

In the next room, a shower runs, drumming water down into an empty tub. Hot steam billows out of the crack in the door, and between that and the sulfur, the scent of human fear is almost completely obstructed.

Castiel drifts closer, careful not to do anything that would give away his presence—he is invisible, yes, but remaining so is tentative at best. Demons are less easily fooled than humans.

He finds the demons in the main bedroom, the same one that the bathroom with the shower is attached to. Two of them—both possessing young black men, likely plucked from the grounds of the university, from the looks of them—argue in hushed tones over the best course of action, while the third—possessing a dark-haired, middle-aged white woman—telekinetically pins a young, human woman against the bedroom wall, holding her several inches above the ground.

The human, although reeking of fear, holds her chin high in defiance and glares at her captors. Castiel does not look too closely at her soul—which glows a bright, yet delicate silver—but even from the surface he can see it is filled with outrage at the demons’ treatment of her, as well as a grim sense of determination that loosely translates to, ‘ _Don’t play with me; if you’re going to kill me, just do it already_.’

She reminds Castiel of Dean, in a way. He decides he likes her.

The squabbling escalates between the two male demons, and the female lets the blackness of her soul bleed into her eyes. “Enough!” she shouts, turning to glare at them. “The boss gave us an order, and we’re going to complete it. So is one of you going to come over here and gut the bitch, or should I?”

The males silence instantly. The taller of the two shrugs at the shorter, who in turn pulls a knife from a hidden, inner pocket of his jacket. His eyes, too, turn black as he advances on the human woman, flipping the weapon to and fro between fingers in an obvious scare-tactic.

When he gets near enough, the woman spits in his face.

The demon’s face contorts with rage. “You little—”

Dropping his invisibility, Castiel darts forward and clamps a hand over the demon’s mouth, and with a pulse of grace, he burns it to its core. Fiery light erupts from the vessel’s eyes as the demon dies, but Castiel pays it no mind, dropping the corpse to the carpeted floor.

He turns next to the female demon, who lets the human fall in favor of pulling out her own blade to attack. Castiel lets his angel blade drop into existence in the palm of his hand, pivoting to avoid the demon’s first, sloppy jab. He slashes his blade upward in retaliation and is met with a sound defense, his motion halted by the hilt of the demon’s knife.

“Not so easy, is it, little birdy?” she smirks, black eyes glinting maliciously. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not a _child_ —”

“ _Excorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ ,” the woman interrupts, staggering to her feet, “ _omnis satanica potestas_ —”

The female demon screams with rage, but she does not dare turn away from Castiel to stop the woman. On the other side of the room, the third demon ejects from its vessel and flees from the room, smashing through a window to escape.

“You _fucking coward_!” the female shouts after her companion.

Castiel takes advantage of her distraction and punches her across the jaw with his free hand, sending her reeling. Now that she is weakened, he pins her in place against the wall with his grace. The woman, meanwhile, is nearing the end of her exorcism, so Castiel throws up a hand to stop her. “Wait! I need to know who she is working for.”

The woman looks unsure, but stops the exorcism as asked. She watches silently as Castiel steps up to the demon, who snarls and fights against her invisible bonds.

Castiel stares impassively at the demon for a moment. Then, without warning, he swipes his blade across her stomach, tearing through her shirt and leaving a shallow cut in his wake. The cut sparks red and orange and the demon growls through grit teeth.

“Who do you work for?”

The demon does not answer. Castiel cuts her again, more deeply this time, and she screams. Blood soaks into her grey shirt and down into her jeans, staining the materials.

Castiel asks again, “Who do you work for?”

The demon lets out a broken laugh and says, “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, pal.” The words ring hollow, though—she knows her confession is inevitable.

Sensing this, Castiel holds his blade to her throat, pressing just barely enough to break the skin. “I will ask one more time,” he says lowly. “Who do you work for?”

The demon closes her eyes and sighs. “Azazel.”

The name sends a deep sense of dread sweeping through Castiel. He knows of Azazel—he is one of Lucifer’s most diligent supporters, and one of the most powerful demons in Hell.

If Azazel is involved, the situation is worse than Castiel expected.

He presses his blade in closer. “What is Azazel’s goal?”

She shakes her head slightly, stopping when the movement digs the blade deeper into her flesh. “I’ve been generous enough. Just kill me.”

Castiel complies, and thrusts his blade into her heart. The core of her being catches fire, lighting her skeleton through her skin, and she slumps to the floor, lifeless.

Castiel exhales heavily as he stares down at the body. It would have been good to learn what Azazel was up to in Palo Alto—and, specifically, why this particular woman was his target—but as the demon said, she was still generous in giving Azazel’s identity away at all.

 _Damn it_.

He will have to ask Gabriel if he has heard anything.

“Hey! Dickhead!”

Castiel looks up, surprised. He had forgotten the human woman was in the room. Even more surprising, though, is the knife in her hand and the fresh cut it inflicted, as well as the blood-drawn sigil on the wall, an equally-bloody hand poised above it. Judging by the hard determination in her eyes, Castiel does not doubt her willingness to activate the sigil and banish him.

He holds up his hands in a show of innocence, sending his blade away with a flick of his wrist. “I mean you no harm,” he says with exaggerated calm. “Please, let me answer your questions.”

She narrows her eyes. “Which member of the God Squad are you, then?”

“Castiel.”

“Angel of Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of angel wears an AC/DC shirt?”

Castiel looks down at himself, having forgotten he is not in his usual attire. The sight of the shirt makes him smile. “It’s my…” He pauses. What is the correct human word for the situation? Boyfriend? No, his relationship with Dean is more permanent. “It’s my husband’s.”

The woman flexes her hand over the sigil, lowering it slightly. “You have a husband,” she huffs under her breath. “You aren’t one of the ones to look out for.”

Castiel tips his head in consideration. “I do not believe so. Have you been warned away from some of my brothers and sisters?”

She shrugs. “There are good humans and bad humans, just like there are good angels and bad angels. It’s good to have an idea of when you need to fight.”

The logic is sound, Castiel supposes—although he is not quite sure how she would know so much about angels in the first place. The Heavenly Host try not to allow too much information to slip to the humans, if they can help it.

“Why are demons after me?” she asks next.

Before Castiel can answer, there is a loud _bang_ from the hallway outside the apartment, followed by a shout and the sounds of two sets of feet running toward the door to 3F.

“Jess!” a male voice shouts. “Jess, are you still here?”

Castiel catches Dean’s scent mere seconds before he hears him hiss, “Damn it, Sam, have you lost your fucking mind?”

The woman—Jess, apparently—relaxes minutely and yells in reply, not taking her eyes off of Castiel, “I’m in the bedroom!”

Sam bursts into the bedroom moments later, Dean hot on his heels. Their eyes widen when they take in the three corpses on the floor, Sam’s with anger and Dean’s with surprise.

“What the fuck…” Dean breathes. He looks to Castiel with raised eyebrows.

Meanwhile, Sam’s eyes lock on the sigil Jess painted on the wall. Castiel can see the exact moment that he figures out what it is for—Dean had gone on at length about his little brother’s smarts, so it is hardly a surprise—but he is helpless to stop Sam from lunging across the room to activate it. Any move Castiel makes may be construed as threatening, and he cannot risk it.

Dean sees what is happening, too, his eyes filled with fear. “Sam, don’t—!”

Sam grabs Jess’s wrist and uses his momentum to force her bloody palm to connect with the center of the sigil.

White-hot fire engulfs Castiel’s form, and he is sure he screams, though he is too preoccupied by a blazing pain to pay much attention.

The last thing he is aware of before his vision whites out completely is Dean shouting his name.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, it doesn’t feel as though he was banished. Castiel has been banished before, and although not pleasant, it did not feel like _this_.
> 
> _This_ is worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my awesome beta, [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com)!

Castiel wakes up by degrees.

The first thing he becomes aware of is his face pressed against the smooth, leather surface of a couch. He’s lying on his stomach, and the odd angle of his position has caused a twinge of stiffness to form in his neck and down his spine. His wings are exposed, and although his right wing is folded up against his back, his left extends loosely over the edge of the couch and into the room beyond.

As his senses adjust and he slowly gets his bearings, he also becomes aware of another body sitting next to him, tucked in under his calves. A hand rests heavily in his folded wing, fingers threaded through the jet-black feathers.

Nearby, he hears a sudden crash of shattering glass, followed by a mumbled curse. The sound makes Castiel jump, and before he can think better of it, he spread his wings and flies.

Or at least, he tries to. He only makes it a split second, getting halfway across the room, before his wings give out and he falls back into the Earthly plane, collapsing with a pained cry. He vaguely registers smashing his face into a piece of furniture on his way to the floor, sending blood flooding from his nose.

He vastly underestimated the damage the banishing has done to his grace, so it seems.

A hand hooks around his bicep and pulls him upward. The light in the room is dim, and yet when he opens his eyes it still stabs into his retinas and blurs his perception of the room further, rendering it impossible to see who grips him.

“Damn it, Sammy, you couldn’t keep your shit together for five fucking minutes, could you? Give us a few minutes. Go help Jess check the salt lines, or something.”

Ah. That would be Dean.

But that doesn’t make sense. Was Castiel not banished? He certainly _feels_ as though he’s been banished.

Castiel tries to push himself up onto his arms, but quickly discovers he is unable to support his weight. Dean, thankfully, slips his own body beneath Castiel’s while he is partially elevated, preventing him from crashing back to the hardwood and injuring himself further.

No, it doesn’t feel as though he was banished. Castiel has been banished before, and although not pleasant, it did not feel like _this_.

_This_ is worse.

Castiel clutches Dean as tightly as he can and presses his bleeding face in close against Dean’s chest, hoping to anchor himself against the pain that wracks his being. His wings tremble against his back, but, try as he might, he cannot gather himself enough to hide them, to prevent them from showcasing his weakness for anyone to see.

Dean tangles a hand in the back of Castiel’s hair, massaging his scalp lightly, while the other hand sets to rubbing steady circles across his back, just above the joints of his wings.

It’s constant. Reassuring. Blood still flows freely from his nose—steadily staining Dean’s white t-shirt, the crimson blotch spreading down his torso and sticking fabric to flesh—prohibiting him from taking in Dean’s scent like he so desperately wants to. But even without Dean’s scent, his presence is calming, and Castiel’s shaking slowly becomes less pronounced.

“…hear me? Cas, give me… work with me, here.”

Dean’s voice, when Castiel finally registers it, sounds distant and muted. Castiel is sure he’s not getting all of it, either. He forces himself to listen harder when Dean continues speaking.

“Cas, come on, you’re okay. _You’re_ okay, _I’m_ okay, everything’s okay. You just gotta talk to me for a minute, can you do that, angel?” Dean presses a kiss to the crown of Castiel’s head, whispering into the dark locks, “You’re scaring the shit out of me, babe.”

Castiel finally wrenches his eyes open, wincing only slightly at the sharp intake of light, and looks up to meet Dean’s worried eyes.

Such green eyes. So beautiful. Like peridot.

But of course, the soul shining through them is even more beautiful. The most beautiful soul in his Father’s Creation.

Dean chuckles, though if anything, the fear in his eyes only deepens. “Shit, you’re even more out of it than I realized,” he says lightly. “Are you concussed, man?”

Castiel frowns. He had not meant to voice those thoughts. _Is_ he concussed? He doesn’t think so.

“Yeah, well _I_ think so, dork.” Dean slides his hand to the top of Castiel’s head and pushes a few strands of hair back from his forehead. “Word-vomit aside, are you okay? What the fuck happened, man?”

With the utmost caution, Castiel twists himself in Dean’s hold so that he is staring upward, his head pillowed on Dean’s thighs and the leverage allowing his wings to rest against the floor without being completely crushed by his own weight. Dean tentatively brings up a hand and wipes the blood away from Castiel’s mouth and nose. He then swipes it off on his jeans before bringing the hand back up to stroke through Castiel’s hair, which the angel is extremely grateful for.

But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he hasn’t the slightest idea what happened. Jess had activated the banishing sigil—or rather, _Sam_ had—and in theory, that should have blasted Castiel halfway across the world. The fact that he is still in the place from which he was banished is… curious, at the very least.

When Castiel says all of this—intentionally, this time—to Dean, Dean frowns.

“Alright,” he says slowly, thinking it over, “so this shouldn’t have even happened in the first place. Awesome. Is there any reason the sigil should have affected _me_?”

The question makes Castiel want to shoot upright in surprise, but Dean tightens his fingers in his hair to prevent him from moving more than a few inches.

“You were affected?” he asks quickly. “How so? Dean, this is very important.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Jesus, I knew it was weird, but I didn’t think it was _that_ weird.”

“ _Dean_.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean rolls his eyes, though not unkindly. “Sam activated the sigil and it went supernova, right? Lit up the whole damn room. _You_ screamed, and your wings came out and nearly clocked me upside the head. Then, all I remember is this awful, burning pain hitting me before I blacked out. Sam and Jess said I was only out for about an hour, and that was around another hour ago.”

Castiel considers this. While Dean _is_ transitioning into an angel, at least in part, that part is nowhere near potent enough for him to get caught up in the web of a banishing sigil. The banishing sigil responds to _grace_ , not soul. Dean does not possess grace, and never will in full. But even so, that would not affect _Castiel’s_ ability to withstand the banishing.

Unless…

“Dean, I need to ask permission for something.”

“Uh…” Dean’s brow furrows. “What’s up?”

“I believe I may know what happened, to both of us, but to be sure, I will need to examine your soul.”

“My soul,” Dean repeats flatly.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you already look at my soul? You were waxing poetic about it just a few minutes ago, in case your concussed brain already forgot. Why are you asking permission?”

Castiel shakes his head as much as he can manage. “I do not just need to _look_ at your soul, Dean, I need to _examine_ it. I have not done this in the time we have known each other. It is… involved. Intimate, even, as to see what I need to see I must use my grace.”

“Okay…”

“May I?”

“Um, yeah. Go for it.”

Castiel manages a smile. “Thank you, Dean.” He twists his head to face Dean better. “Will you lean over me, please? It will make this easier.”

Dean obliges, shifting his position so that he can lean down and connect his forehead to Castiel’s when he is tugged in with a hand on the back of his neck. They breathe one another’s air for a moment too long, both caught staring, despite the difficulty of the task at such short distance.

It feels only natural for Castiel to lift his chin and meet Dean’s lips, as well. He kisses Dean chastely, at first, but his taste is intoxicating, and before he knows it he is sucking Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, scraping his teeth across its plump surface.

Castiel lets out a breathy moan. He wants more, _needs_ more—

And that’s when Dean pulls away, just far enough for his glorious lips to be unreachable. He laughs, his eyes shining with mirth. “You’re _really_ fucking out of it, babe, holy _shit_. What happened to soul-reading, huh?”

A blush rises to Castiel’s face, unbidden. “You’re very distracting,” he mumbles lamely.

Dean laughs again, and moves to cradle Castiel’s face in his hands. “Yeah, I know. I’m hot shit. But can you please focus for a minute so we can find out what the fuck happened to you?”

Castiel pulls Dean back to him, but instead of kissing him again, he focuses on Dean’s soul, and directs the tendrils of his grace toward it. The moment he makes contact, Castiel is almost overwhelmed with bliss, and he allows his eyes to slip closed to focus completely on the feeling.

Dean’s soul, so bright, so perfect, welcomes Castiel’s grace in easily. There is none of the hesitation another would bear—whether human soul or angel grace, no other being would open so gladly to him. Dean lets Castiel in like only a true mate could, with perfect compatibility in every possible aspect.

He only revels for a moment before pressing forward, searching out a particular strain in Dean’s soul. He wades through two and a half decades of memories, cherished and despised alike, though he tries not to poke anything too hard for fear of activating any of it.

What he is doing right now is like window shopping: peering in at glimpses of Dean’s life—setting off fireworks with Sam in a moonlit meadow, listening to John rage at him for being caught in a… _compromising_ position with another high school boy—though never viewing the memories in full. To do so would allow him to live the moments as Dean did, through Dean’s eyes, and that is not his objective right now.

Castiel steadily makes his way deeper into Dean’s soul, and all the while, Dean curls affectionately around him, pressing into his grace wherever possible. Castiel can feel Dean drifting through snippets of memories just as Castiel himself is, prodding with gentle curiosity.

**_Don’t touch that, Dean._ **

Dean startles at the telepathic communication, surprise pulsing through his soul. He recovers quickly, though, and asks, **_Why not? What’ll happen?_**

**_Those are memories_** , Castiel responds, **_and in this way you can watch them._** Dean practically glows with interest, but Castiel cuts him off. **_May I find what I am searching for, first? As soon as I find my answer, you can choose one. Is that fair?_**

Dean gives the equivalent of a nod, though it is colored by hesitancy. **_Are you sure, man? You don’t have to share something like that with me, it’s alright._**

Castiel sends back a pulse of gentle affection. **_Dean, you are my mate. You are allowed to know about me; I do not mind._** When he feels Dean’s hesitation shift, become more self-directed, he adds, **_You do not have to return the favor, Dean. I mean it only as a demonstration._**

Inevitably, Dean’s curiosity wins out over his sense of reluctance, and he hums in agreement. He then goes back to poking around Castiel’s grace as if their conversation never happened.

Frankly, Castiel is grateful for this response. His exhaustion is still absolute, and even rooting through Dean’s soul in this capacity is a struggle. He does not have the focus necessary to continue communicating with Dean, though he would put forth his best effort if that is what his mate wanted of him. Replaying the memory will not cost any additional energy, but Castiel still needs his wits about him to find what he is looking for.

Just as Castiel has these thoughts, he sees it: the tendrils of the mating bond woven into Dean’s soul. The pieces affected by the bond burn a different color than the rest, more blue than gold, to match Castiel’s grace.

As Castiel brings his grace nearer, the tendrils of the bond reach for him, embracing him like a body would embrace a lover. Affection and adoration pour into Castiel everywhere they touch, with so much less restraint than Dean ever allows himself to display physically. It fills Castiel with pure ecstasy.

Dean’s attention is drawn to mating bond as well, and his consciousness drifts over to inspect it. When he sees the state Castiel is in—practically writhing with pleasure and love—the emotions in his soul spike, and he does the equivalent of running his fingers down Castiel’s spine. The contact makes both of them shiver, and soon they are both overwhelmed with sensation.

**_Dean_ ,** Castiel gasps, **_this is not a good time for that._**

Beneath the layers of lust, Dean’s consciousness rings with amusement. **_Not a good time for what? Amazing soul-sex? I think we can spare a few minutes._** To emphasis his point, Dean manipulates his soul in such a way that their mating bond is perfectly aligned, multiplying the shared feelings tenfold.

**_Dean, I—Please._** Castiel searches for a way to dissuade Dean from pursuing this. On any other occasion he would jump at the chance to have Dean like this, exposed to his grace and oh-so-willing, but they don’t have _time_ , there is still Sam, and Jess, and the legion of demons—

Castiel presses all of this upon Dean, hoping for his understanding. He laces it with as much love and expression of regret as he can manage in his still-addled state. Then, before he has to feel his mate’s disappointment build too high, he adds, **_Choose a memory, please. There must be one that interests you._**

Dean freezes for a moment, overwhelmed by the abrupt change in pace. He sends Castiel only a brief pulse of the expected disappointment before drifting back to the archive of memories. It is clear from the way he moves that he has a specific memory in mind, but he takes his time reaching for it, idly tickling Castiel’s grace and eliciting shivers as he goes.

Dean does not understand the nuances of how the interaction works, of course, so Castiel cannot find it in himself to be surprised when a memory suddenly overtakes them, jarring as it may be.

He has only a moment to wish he had had the chance to veto this particular memory before he is lost to it.

~

_Castiel had thought about it many times, but he had never actually gone through with it. Now that he has, he’s terrified._

_Michael will have his wings for this, no doubt about it._

_It doesn’t matter, though._ Anything _will be worth getting away from those fledglings he had previously liked to refer to as his ‘friends’._

_And that’s why it hurts so badly, isn’t it? Anael and Uriel were supposed to be his_ friends _. But friends are not supposed to treat friends with the type of cruel malice Anael and Uriel directed Castiel’s way. Friends do not bully their friends, do not mock them._

_Friends do not discriminate against their friends._

_Castiel has a hard time making friends at all, being alone under Gabriel’s care. It’s no secret in Heaven that Gabriel is odd, nor that his sole fledgling takes after him in that manner. Gabriel and Castiel are not like the rest of them. Gabriel and Castiel do not follow their_ structure _._

_The thought sends fresh anger flooding through Castiel, his wings twitching and flaring agitatedly against his back as he storms down the beach, movement for the sake of movement._

_Stupid wings. Stupid feathers. Stupid_ fucking _—_

_Castiel aims a violent kick at a stone sitting near the edge of the grey ocean, sending flying yards over the open water before sinking beneath the waves with a_ plunk _. It’s satisfying, in a way. Castiel does it again with another rock, then a clump of seaweed, then an unfortunate crab ventured too far from its home._

_He sees a fish—a slimy, grey thing that matches the abyss from which it came. It flops limply in the line of the tide, each incoming crash of a wave displacing it, not giving a choice otherwise. Its fins are overlarge for its body, as are its eyes. It looks_ wrong _._

_Castiel poises his foot over it, prepared to stomp down and end its miserable existence._

_“Not that fish, Castiel. Big plans for that fish.”_

_Castiel tenses, but does as he is told and lets the fish be. He doesn’t look at Gabriel when he says flatly, “It was Balthazar, wasn’t it.”_

_“Ezekiel, actually,” Gabriel replies. “He didn’t tattle that you ditched, if that’s what you’re implying, though. He said only that he was concerned for you.” He circles around Castiel to stand in front of him._

_Castiel, for his part, only stares at his own bare feet, refusing to look up at his brother. He absently watches the waves lap over his toes. The water claws at the edge of his wrap, slowly soaking into the pale, flowing fabric._

_Gabriel says, “He told me what happened.”_

_A light growl emanates from Castiel’s chest and finally looks up to meet his older brother’s worry-ridden gaze with a hard glare. “Ezekiel knows nothing of what happened. He doesn’t understand,_ no one _does.”_

_He spins away from Gabriel and flees in the opposite direction, purposefully avoiding stepping on the trail of small footprints he already left imprinted in the sand. He knows it’s useless trying to escape Gabriel, but he still doesn’t_ care _. He needs time to clear his head, can no one see that?_

_As expected, Gabriel flies the short distance and places himself directly in Castiel’s path, stopping him in place with hands reaching low to rest on his shoulders. For a long moment, Gabriel only stares at Castiel, studies him with those golden eyes of his. The golden eyes that so perfectly match his_ golden _wings, wings every member of the Host_ envies _._

_Wings that are not black. Wings that are not disproportionate to the rest of him._

_Anael’s words echo back through Castiel’s mind. “Father made us to be perfect,” she had said. “Our wings are bright with the colors of His love.” She gave Castiel a look of false pity. “But_ you _, Castiel. Your wings are black as sin, aren’t they? What could that mean, I wonder?”_

_Castiel’s retort had died on his tongue the moment Uriel laughed, laughing as though it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. “They’re just so_ ugly _, Castiel! You know that, don’t you?” He turned to Anael with a wide grin, his own silver wings flaring with pride. “It is Gabriel’s doing, of course—that fool isn’t_ half _the archangel Michael is. He’s probably growing Castiel’s wings on purpose, as his idea of a joke. Why else would they be so horribly disproportionate?”_

_Anael had laughed too, then, a pretty, musical sound, and a perfect contrast to the rolling bass of Uriel’s chuckling. Several other fledglings had joined in, too, all pointing, laughing, staring._

_In the present, Castiel is unaware he is crying until Gabriel pulls him sharply against his chest, wrapping him tightly in both wings and arms._

_A part of Castiel wants to fight, wants to escape his brother’s hold and demand to be left alone in his misery. He wants to be left alone forever. He wants to be allowed to just walk the Earth, always and without consequence._

_But instead, he snakes his own arms around Gabriel’s waist and hugs him hard, seeking comfort in his touch. The tears come in earnest, now, punctuated by heavy sobs as he loses what little control he had on his emotions. He presses his face firmly against Gabriel’s chest, too lost to care about the moisture saturating the front of his brother’s wrap._

_Gabriel does not ask questions. There is no need to, after all. He already knows what the other angels think of him. He knows that even if Castiel were not an outcast in his own right, he would still be subjected to harassment simply through association with Gabriel himself._

_Castiel does not blame Gabriel, though, not like everyone else seems to. Castiel is his_ Father’s _idea of a joke, not Gabriel’s._

_For what could be minutes or hours or years, Gabriel holds Castiel and lets him cry. Finally, when it feels like all the moisture has gone from Castiel’s body and he resorts to only the occasional snivel, Gabriel pulls back and drops to a knee in front of him, putting them at a more equal height._

_“It’ll get better, Cassie,” he says earnestly. “Your wings are awesome, alright? Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Fledglings are dicks, and you know that. Don’t let them get to you like this, don’t let them know they’ve_ won _. You’ll outrank all those asshats soon enough. One day, Castiel, you’ll lead_ armies _. This is all just a part of the journey there.”_

_Empty platitudes, all of it. The other fledglings will never accept Castiel as one of their own, so why bother pretending? He closes his eyes against the sight of his brother and tries desperately to turn off his emotions, at least for the time being._

_It’s not like they’ve ever gotten him anywhere, anyway._

~

Castiel forces the memory to an end and quickly extricates himself from Dean’s soul. They both fall back into awareness in their bodies, Dean with a gasp and Castiel with a pained groan. Caught up in the twist of soul and grace, he had forgotten just how physically damaged the banishing sigil had left him. His grace feels at least partially rejuvenated, though, so the healing process should begin to make amends.

Castiel’s head is still cradled in Dean’s lap, and Dean stares down at him with wide eyes. “Cas—”

“It was the mating bond,” Castiel interrupts, speaking to the ceiling. “Your presence tethered me here when the sigil activated; that’s why you fell unconscious. Your soul was not prepared to deal with the strain.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth several times, still struggling to get out of the headspace of Castiel’s childhood memory. “Cas, that memory—”

“The bond is strong,” Castiel continues, “unusually so. I don’t know why that is the case. I can ask Gabriel when next I see him, perhaps he will have some sort of insight—”

“Castiel!”

Castiel halts mid-sentence, closing his eyes to hide how wet they have become. These are old insecurities, ones he tried his damnedest to bury over the long millennia that have passed since that day. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not now, not ever.

But what will Dean think? He had no reason to know how abnormal Castiel is, how different he is from his brethren. Will he despise Castiel? Will he call him names, insult his wings, just as Anael, Uriel, and so many others have?

He doesn’t think he could withstand such a thing.

When Dean cups a hand around Castiel’s face, Castiel gasps in surprise, his eyes flying open against his better judgment. Dean’s face is etched with sympathy and concern, but perhaps even more surprising than that are the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, just waiting to fall.

Damn it. Here Castiel is trying to avoid the subject all together, while his mate is still reeling in the face of it.

No good alpha would leave their omega in this condition—not when it is so easily rectified, and _especially_ not when it is the alpha’s own fault.

Castiel reaches a hand up to smooth along the side of Dean’s face, and is inexplicably pleased when Dean leans into the touch. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst, before saying, “I’m sorry you had to see that memory, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head, but grabs Castiel’s hand to keep it pressed to his face. “Why the _fuck_ are you apologizing to _me_?” he whispers, his voice thick. “You were _bullied_ , and you think that’s something to be sorry for _at all_? That isn’t your fault, Cas. Those other kids were dicks, just like Gabriel said.”

“Dean,” Castiel sighs, “that isn’t the point. The _point_ is that I’m a poor excuse for an angel. I’m _wrong_ , Dean, can’t you see that? I’m hideous. I’m sorry you agreed to mate with me before you knew, Dean, truly. It was unfair of me.”

Dean scoffs, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “You’re joking, right? You’re having a meltdown because you think you’re _ugly_?” He presses a quick, tender kiss to Castiel’s lips, tracing his fingertips over the contours of Castiel’s face. “You’re fucking _gorgeous_ , alright? With your lips, and your sex-hair, and your goddamn _eyes_ —” He cuts himself off there, and trails one and down to rest over Castiel’s beating heart. “Anyways, I could go on, alright? Point is, you’re fucking awesome, and everything _about you_ is fucking awesome. The black wings are totally badass, dude. Honestly. And I think they really fit you.”

“I—” Castiel swallows thickly. If Dean still likes him, that’s all that matters, right? Castiel has long since gotten over holding these problems against himself, after all, with the help of Gabriel and a few loyal friends. “Thank you, Dean,” he settles on saying. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

In lieu of an answer, Dean leans back in and slots their mouths together, kissing him more deeply than before. Castiel’s lips tingle with the force of the kiss, and before he knows it, a tongue has slid in alongside his own, licking sweetly against the roof of his mouth.

Across the room, someone clears their throat.

Dean sits up so quickly he smacks the back of his head against the wall he is leaning against. He mutters a quiet, “ _Fuck_ ,” and rubs a hand across the minor injury. He looks up sheepishly and says, “Hey, Sammy.”

Castiel cannot see Sam from his current angle, so he pushes himself up into a sitting position beside Dean against the wall. He has to lean against Dean heavily for support, but it pays off in that he can finally see the younger Winchester standing in the mouth of the hall, his chest puffed and his arms crossed over it to make himself appear even larger than he actually is. “Hello, Sam, Jess. Pleasure to meet you.”

Jess pokes her head out from behind Sam, smiling brightly at Castiel. “Hi, Castiel! It’s nice to actually meet you, too. Sorry about Sam,” she pokes him in the side, although he doesn’t change position, “he’s gone kind of ‘alpha male’, if you know what I mean.”

The choice of words makes Castiel smile. He knows all too well what she means.

Before Castiel can say so, Dean spits, “Sam, can you pull the goddamn stick out of your ass and come in here so we can talk this out like adults? Or would you rather smash more salt-shakers?”

Sam glares at his brother for only a moment before coming into the room to sit on the couch, facing the couple on the floor. Jess situates herself next to him without hesitation, and with distinctly less distrust than her boyfriend displays.

Dean breathes out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You owe me—me _and Jess_ —an explanation. A few of them, actually.”

“Um…” Dean scratches at the back of his neck. In a flash, as if he needs to act before he can think, he takes one of Castiel’s hands in his own, lacing their fingers together. “So, this is Cas. He’s, uh… He’s an angel. And… I’m kind of in love with him.”

Castiel looks at Dean sharply. He knows Dean loves him, yes, but that knowledge was wordless, built off of subtext, more than anything. This is the first time he has heard Dean say it aloud.

Dean keeps his eyes fixed on Sam, watching for a reaction.

It’s Jess who speaks first. She looks to Castiel with a teasing grin. “So when you said the shirt was your husband’s…”

“ _Husband_?!” Sam repeats incredulously, his eyes almost comically wide. “What the hell, Dean! You found an angel, _an angel of God_ , and you decided to _put a ring on it_?”

Dean gapes, completely at a loss for words, so Castiel answers for him. “I apologize for the confusion. _Husband_ may not have been the most accurate term, but it is the closest equivalent in your culture. Dean is my mate—my _true mate_ , actually, which is not unlike a soulmate. Dean did not ‘put a ring on it’, as you put it.” Castiel tilts his head to look up at Dean, an eyebrow raised in question. “Did you not discuss any of this with them while I was unconscious?”

Dean shrugs and averts his eyes. A faint blush colors his cheeks. “It wasn’t my top priority.”

Jess chuckles under her breath. “Top priority…” she parrots. “Cas, he hasn’t left your side since he woke up, except to bitch at Sam for activating the sigil. _That_ probably happened about a dozen times.”

Sam, at least, has the decency to look ashamed. “I said I was sorry, alright?” He meets Castiel’s eyes and says, “I really am sorry, Castiel. I reacted on hunter’s instinct, and I should have taken better stock of what was happening. But when I found the front door kicked in and bodies on the floor… I panicked. I had no idea, man, I’m so sorry.”

Jess’s previous words about Sam being ‘alpha male’ echo through Castiel’s mind. Sam’s reaction to Castiel’s presence was the equivalent of an alpha angel’s when their mate is threatened—in the moment of Sam’s arrival, he viewed Castiel as a threat to Jess. It is not unlike Castiel’s own response to Dean’s earlier confrontation with Al.

He nods once at Sam. “It is forgotten.”

Some of the tension drains out of Sam’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

Dean squeezes Castiel’s hand, another gesture of thanks. Castiel smiles and returns it.

“Speaking of bodies,” Jess pipes up, oblivious to Dean and Castiel’s exchange, “what the hell was that about? Why were those demons trying to kill me?”

Sam turns to Jess with narrowed eyes. “ _Speaking of_ , how do you know about demons? And that sigil you drew, where did you learn it?”

Dean sits forward slightly, clearly interested in the topic himself.

Jess chews on her lower lip for a moment. “Well, now that I know _you’re_ hunters… Ever heard of the Campbells?”

“The Campbells are hunters?” Dean asks, at the same time Sam says, “Please don’t tell me you’re a Campbell.”

“So… you _do_ know the Campbells?” Jess asks slowly, looking between the two Winchesters.

“Our mom was a Campbell,” Sam says. He looks to Dean, brow furrowed. “It can’t be the same _Campbell_ , could it?”

Dean shrugs. “Mom _was_ killed by a demon…”

Castiel vaguely remembers Dean having told him that once before, on the night that they met. He makes a mental note to ask for more details later.

“Well, my _step-mom_ was a Campbell, so we aren’t secretly cousins,” Jess says, winking at Sam. “There were complications when I was born, so I never knew my real mother. Cindy met my dad when she saved us both from a vampire, when I was about six. She taught the two of us everything she knew.”

“Sounds a lot healthier than Dad…” Dean mumbles to himself.

Castiel opens his mouth, about to ask Jess about her knowledge of angels, when he feels a tingle along the edges of his senses and snaps his jaw closed with an audible _click_. With his grace at less than full strength, he cannot get a clear read on what is approaching, nor how many of them there may be, but something _is_ coming.

Dean must have noticed him tense. “Cas? You alright?”

He can smell sulfur—a lot of it.

“Dean, we need to go,” he says, panic quickly taking root. “We need to go _now_!”

“Son of a bitch.” Dean hooks Castiel’s arm around his shoulders and hauls them both to their feet. He has to support most of Castiel’s weight, but the angel is sure to try and hold his wings out of tripping-range.

Sam and Jess both leapt to their feet the moment Castiel spoke, and now anxiously await more information. “Dean, what the hell’s happening?”

“Demons,” Castiel answers, “a lot of them.” He pauses and whips his head toward the front door of the apartment. The scent of sulfur is thickening, and he can hear footsteps thundering up the stairwell. His heart sinks. “They’re already here.”

Dean’s hold on him tightens. “Cas, what do we do?”

With the demons fast approaching, their chances of escape quickly dwindle from slim to nonexistent. The salt lines will only buy them so much time, and Castiel lacks the ability to fly himself out of the building right now, let alone three additional humans. But if they don’t make it out, they will be slaughtered for sure.

“Cas, come on! We need a plan!”

Castiel sees no option but to resort to his ultimate failsafe.

He prays to his big brother for help.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gathering what little energy he can muster, Castiel staggers forward, ignoring his mate’s protests, and raises his wings to shield Dean, Sam, and Jess from whatever attack the demons are preparing. He is unsteady on his feet and his wings do not look quite as intimidating as he would like, but considering the circumstances, he’ll take what he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my awesome beta, [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com)!

Only moments after Castiel calls on his brother, the first of the demons arrives at the entrance to the apartment, spitting and snarling and reeking of sulfur. A companion soon joins him, and the pair start to pace restlessly in front of the salt line that keeps them out, clearly searching for a way to exploit it.

Dean’s arm tightens around Castiel, his expression panicked. “Cas, _please_ tell me you have a way out of this.”

Castiel redoubles the fervency of his prayers. He hates the thick scent of fear emanating from Dean’s skin, but despite the desire to make the emotion stop circulating throughout every part of his being, there is nothing more he can do.

**_Any time would be great, Gabriel._ **

A third demon comes down the hall then, equipped with—and Castiel wishes he were joking—a flamethrower.

Gathering what little energy he can muster, Castiel staggers forward, ignoring his mate’s protests, and raises his wings to shield Dean, Sam, and Jess from whatever attack the demons are preparing. He is unsteady on his feet and his wings do not look quite as intimidating as he would like, but considering the circumstances, he’ll take what he can get.

Demon number three smirks, black eyes flashing, and aims his weapon directly at the angel. His finger teasingly caresses the ignition trigger, likely trying to savor the group’s fear as long as he can.

Dean reaches out and catches one of Castiel’s hands in his own, tangling their fingers together beneath the lower arch of a wing. The gesture warms Castiel and he straightens his spine slightly, drawing strength from the contact.

“Sentimentality won’t get you anywhere,” demon number three scoffs, earning a dark chuckle from each of his cronies.

Castiel finally loses his patience and shouts out loud, “Gabriel, so help me—!”

Smirking in satisfaction, the head demon finally pulls the trigger his finger had been hovering over, releasing a torrent of flame into the apartment—

Only to be stopped short by the appearance of a set of golden wings, bathed in a bright, equally-golden light.

At Castiel’s side, Dean shields his eyes from the heavenly force, glimpsing through spread fingers instead of trying to look head-on. From the corner of his eye, Castiel can see Sam and Jess reacting similarly.

Castiel just rolls his eyes. Typical Gabriel; arriving at the last possible second, and in the most dramatic way possible.

He can’t even find it in himself to be surprised anymore.

Gabriel plays it off well, acting as though the entrance was _not_ , in fact, a part of the bigger charade he obviously plans on playing out in front of Cas’ mate and his mate’s family. The archangel takes a short step toward the group of demons, growling menacingly—Castiel does not need to see his brother’s face to know that his eyes are alpha-red with rage—and with a single snap of his fingers, he makes the flamethrower melt like goo through its handler’s grasp.

A flash of nearby lightning suddenly lights the apartment. The extensive thunder that follows is nearly deafening.

“I don’t know who you think you are, _you bag of dicks_ ,” Gabriel snarls, continuing to advance on the demons, “but you are truly _stupid_ if you thought you could _attack_ _my little brother_ and _get away with it_.”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, Castiel blinks in surprise. Perhaps the lightshow was not intended to impress Dean, after all.

Just as there is another crack of thunder overhead, the glow Gabriel is emitting brightens sharply and the three demons in the doorway begin to scream. The scent of sulfur peaks, too, as they are burned out of their possessed bodies by the fury of an archangel.

At that moment, another wave of demons reach the third-floor hallway. Before they can reach the remnants of the apartment’s front door, however, all of its occupants disappear.

Flying in tandem has never been something Castiel appreciates, and in his current, less-than-fully-charged state, his dislike for it is greater than usual. When Gabriel lands them all in a motel room on the opposite side of the country, it takes everything Castiel has not to pass out again.

He wouldn’t have had the chance to anyway, considering the fact that Gabriel is insistently pressing into his personal space the moment they touch down. His brother pushes him several paces away from Dean—who is still struggling to reorient himself after the abrupt flight—and holds him in place with a firm hand around his lower jaw while he studies him with both eyes and grace.

Castiel sighs in annoyance, but lets the inspection continue anyway. This isn’t the first time Gabriel has seen him in such rough shape, nor is it the first time he has pulled him from a near-death scenario. Having been Gabe’s only fledgling means he is guaranteed to be overprotective in even the best of circumstances.

“Damn it, Cassie, what the hell happened?” he asks softly, poking along the edges of Castiel’s grace to assess the damage done to it. “You’ve been torn to _shreds_ , little bro.”

“Banishing sigil,” Castiel explains. “It did not function as anticipated.”

That’s only half the story, of course, but Castiel would prefer not to discuss certain details in the presence of current company. He sees no reason to cause Dean additional worry.

And then there is the small matter of telling Dean about the changes he is undergoing in the first place. Cas should really get on that one.

Gabriel narrows his eyes at Castiel, clearly assessing the potential secret he suspects is being withheld, but before he can give voice to his doubts, he is yanked away from Castiel by a hand on his shoulder. He deftly tucks his wings into subspace when he spins to face an angry Dean Winchester.

“What the fuck was that for?” he demands. “Where are we?”

“Dean-o!” Gabe exclaims, smiling widely, his teeth hidden behind his lips. “I don’t think we’ve officially met yet, have we? Gotta say, though, I’m a _big_ fan of your work.” Gabe winks overdramatically.

Castiel growls under his breath. “Gabriel—”

“Oh, cut it out.” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Fine. Maybe I’m not as big of a fan as Cassie here, but I still respect a professional when I see one, alright?”

Dean scoffs, but the tension he had first displayed is draining from his body. The gun he had pulled, too, goes back into the waistband of his jeans now that he knows he has no need for it—he knows enough about Cas’ brother to know he can be trusted. “I don’t know if what I do is considered _professional_ , but whatever. Don’t make it weird, man.”

“Hey, asshat,” Gabe says teasingly, “let’s not forget who brought you and Cas together in the first place, alright?”

“Dean, what the hell is he talking about?” Sam asks, hedging closer with Jess at his heels. The two of them look equally confused, staring between Dean, Cas, and Gabe.

Dean gapes, the blood draining from his face as he is abruptly reminded of Sam’s presence in the room. “I—I don’t—”

“Dean was on a hunt when I met him,” Castiel interjects, thinking quickly. He subtly nudges Gabriel with one of his wings, earning a sharp look from the elder angel. “Gabe and I were in Los Angeles to celebrate my recent promotion, and he picked up on a demon causing trouble. Dean was already in pursuit of it, so we helped him destroy it.”

 ** _Go with it_ ,** he says over prayer-frequency to Gabriel, noting the relief already visible on Dean’s face. **_Please._**

“That’s right!” Gabriel chimes in, catching on quickly. “Dean-o was _way_ out of his league with that one, let me tell ya. Admittedly, I didn’t do much, since Cassie was _instantly_ smitten.”

Privately to Castiel, he says, **_That was smooth, bro. Who knew you could lie so well?_**

Castiel cannot help but smirk. As his mentor and primary caregiver, Gabe drilled in every lesson he could to try to model Castiel’s behavior after his own trickster tendencies. Not many of those lessons had taken root, of course—his fascination for humans aside, Castiel is a model angel—but that does not mean Cas doesn’t remember them.

The trick to telling a good lie, for example, is to weave pieces of truth into the fabricated story.

He tells his brother, **_I learned from the best._**

Gabriel laughs aloud and claps Castiel on the shoulder. “Hells yeah, you did!”

Dean frowns. “What?”

Gabriel waves him off before Castiel has the chance, pointing a finger between his own temple and Castiel’s. “Separate conversation. Don’t worry about it.”

Sam takes a half-step forward, his interest piqued. “You can communicate telepathically?”

“Sure,” Gabriel shrugs. He pauses and looks Sam over, then peeks at Jess, too, his grin returning. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”

Cas hobbles the few steps back to lean against Dean for support, folding his wings as tightly to his body as he can currently manage. “Gabriel, this is Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore. Sam, Jess, this is my brother Gabriel.”

“The archangel Gabriel?” the couple asks in perfect sync. Neither take their eyes off said archangel, but Sam’s lips twitch and Jess deftly elbows him in the side.

“The one and only,” Gabe confirms with a wink. He turns to Dean. “As for your initial question, Dean-o, we’re in New Jersey. Hoboken, to be exact.”

“Hoboken!” Dean repeats incredulously. “Are you telling me that you zapped us to the Atlantic, and _abandoned_ my _car_ —in demon-infested _Palo fucking Alto_ of all places?”

Gabriel snorts. “Your biggest concern is your car?”

“Uh, yeah? Is that a problem, asshat?”

The archangel turns to Castiel, a single eyebrow raised. “Am I hearing this correctly? Do I really have to go pick up his _car_?”

Cas shrugs. “I’m unable to do it myself in my current condition,” he says, “so yes. It’s a black, 1967 Chevrolet Impala. It should be parked near the building you picked us up from.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes and vanishes.

Sam gives Dean an annoyed look. “Really, Dean?”

“Bite me, Sam.”

“Car’s outside,” Gabe announces on reappearance. He flops dramatically onto the room’s single bed, reclining back against the pillows and crossing his ankles. From the pocket of his canvas jacket he pulls a Snickers candy bar, which he immediately unwraps and begins munching on.

“So, kiddies,” he says around a mouthful of chocolate and nougat, “how’d you manage to piss off the entire population of Hell?”

While Sam and Jess launch into an abbreviated explanation of their respective pasts as hunters, Dean helps maneuver Castiel into one of the chairs at the room’s small table. He manually adjusts the way Cas’ wings rest against the back, letting his fingers linger over the black feathers for perhaps just a moment too long—not that Castiel is complaining, of course—before sitting himself in a second chair, pulled close enough for the angel to touch his mate if he so desired.

Which, in fact, Castiel _does_ desire. Very much so. Dean has hardly settled into his seat when Castiel reaches to twist their hands together, resting the back of his hand against Dean’s thigh. The casual contact, coupled with the steady intake of Dean’s calm, cherry-and-leather scent, relaxes Castiel to the point that his eyelids droop closed, and his awareness of the room becomes hazy.

He doesn’t realize he’s been falling asleep until he jerks awake some time later, his chair closer to Dean’s than it had been previously and his head pillowed against his mate’s shoulder. He can feel the rumble of Dean’s voice beneath his ear, but the words halt the moment Castiel shifts against him, stretching minutely.

A hand runs through Castiel’s hair. “Cas?” Dean says gently, his mouth nearly touching the angel’s skin. “You okay, babe?”

Reluctant though he is to leave the comfort Dean provides, Castiel sits up straight and rolls his shoulders. His grace has greatly recovered over the course of his impromptu nap, and so he finally manages to conceal his wings. He squeezes Dean’s hand in answer to his question and asks of no one in particular, “What did I miss?”

“You were asleep for about an hour, baby bro,” Gabriel replies, still sprawled across the bed. He does a much better job of hiding his worry than he had previously, but it is there nonetheless. “We’ve been trying to come up with theories as to why the Hell-scum want Little Miss Moore’s head on a spike, but so far we’ve got jack-squat. Any input from Heaven’s most cuddly angel?”

“Fuck off, Gabe,” Dean scoffs, smoothing his thumb over the back of Castiel’s hand and smiling lightly. “The guy’s been through a lot, alright?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Gabriel responds, flapping a hand in Dean’s direction. He raises an eyebrow at Castiel. “Anything?”

Castiel thinks for a moment, going over everything he knows about the incident thus far. A large number of demons had been in Palo Alto when he and Dean first arrived in the city, and whatever black magic they had been performing has yet to make itself known.

When he says this to Gabriel, his brother scowls at the ceiling. “Not quite, kiddo. All of Palo Alto was shrouded from the sight of Heaven, probably to keep us from interfering. We should be thankful I heard your call for help at all with all of the interference in the signal.”

Jess, sitting at the foot of the bed, frowns. “Magic strong enough to block out Heaven must have a serious power-draw, right? Could we somehow use that to trace whoever did it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “The power had to be drawn from an entire _legion_ of demons, so even if the draw could be traced, it would lead us to too many sources.” On the opposite side of the room Sam makes a small noise of disappointment, but Castiel holds up a hand to stop him from speaking out. “But that is not of import. I got a name from one of the first demons in the apartment.”

Gabriel bolts upright on the bed, his current piece of candy—this one in a blue wrapper labeled ‘Almond Joy’—tossed away without a second glance. “Castiel, if you aren’t fucking with us right now, I might just give you another promotion.”

“Why would I—?” Castiel shakes his head. Even after millennia together, he doesn’t quite understand his brother. “I interrogated one of the demons who attempted to kill Jess. She told me she was under the command of Azazel.”

In a flash, Gabriel goes from sitting on the bed to standing directly in front of Castiel. He roughly puts a hand on each of Castiel’s shoulders and uses his grace to seek out the memory of the demon’s confession.

Castiel sees the exact moment Gabriel recognizes the truth of his statement. His gold eyes turn red with alpha rage, and a lightbulb in the ceiling above them pops when he begins to pace. He mutters under his breath, “Fuck fuck _fuck_.”

“Um… Cas?” Dean turns to face Castiel directly, his green eyes searching. “Who’s Azazel?”

The open fear in Dean’s eyes is too much for Castiel to handle right now, so he watches his brother work out his agitation instead. Even through his layers of clothing—which match the Winchesters’ sense of style remarkably well, he notes—Castiel can see the muscles of Gabriel’s back and shoulders twitching with the would-be movements of his wings, were he to allow them to manifest.

“Cas, man, if you know what we’re up against, you have to tell us.”

Castiel already knows he could never deny Dean anything, but in this, to lie would also be amoral. While it is clear that Gabriel knows more about Azazel’s present-day behavior than Castiel does, Cas knows plenty about Azazel’s history, as well as the trail of blood in his wake.

“Azazel is…” Castiel searches for a proper description. “Azazel is one of the worst. He is a very powerful, very dark demon. One of the most abhorrent. He ranks only a few positions below Lucifer himself in Hell.”

“Azazel’s a _nasty_ son of a bitch,” Gabriel spits suddenly, his movements across the dingy carpet unceasing. “In terms of power and position, he’s Hell’s equivalent of Castiel.”

That particular phrasing earns Castiel incredulous stares from all three humans, and a low whistle from Dean. Castiel pointedly ignores their gazes.

Gabriel continues, “That yellow-eyed bastard has been up to something for decades, but no one’s been able to figure out _what_.”

At Castiel’s side, Dean tenses. His scent instantly turns stale, reminding Cas of their conversation—was it only that previous morning?—about John Winchester’s unknown whereabouts.

Sam lurches away from the wall he had been leaning against beside Jess, staring at Gabriel with wide eyes. “Did you say Azazel has yellow eyes?”

Gabriel finally halts his pacing. He shoots Castiel a quick, indecipherable look before answering Sam. “Yes.”

“Do many demons have yellow eyes?”

“Only Azazel, as far as I’m aware.”

For a moment, Sam sways on his feet, blood rapidly draining from his face and looking as if he’s about to pass out. The worst of it seems to pass after a few seconds, though, and he buries his face in his hands. “Oh god.”

Jess cautiously stands from the bed to approach her boyfriend. “Sam?” she says slowly. When this gets her no response, she reaches over to lay her hand on Sam’s bicep.

“Don’t!” Sam shouts, jerking out of Jess’s reach. His eyes are wild and his face flushed, and he hardly seems to register the hurt coloring Jess’s expression before he turns and storms out of the motel room all together. The door slams shut behind him.

A few seconds pass in tense silence. Jess swears under her breath and exits the room as well.

“Well, shit,” Gabe says simply, staring at the door. “That can’t be good.”

Castiel, however, is too focused on his mate’s panic to give Sam’s departure much thought. He looks to his brother pleadingly, and is relieved when the archangel nods without even attempting an argument.

Half a heartbeat later, Gabriel is gone, likely following after Sam and Jess.

Dean’s reaction to the news—which part had it been that sent him over the edge?—is far more internal than Sam’s had been, but no less intense. His eyes are unfocused and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. He doesn’t respond when Castiel stands and circles to crouch in front of his chair.

“Dean, what do you know about Azazel? What do you and Sam know?”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath before looking up to meet Castiel’s gaze. “I told you what happened to my mom, didn’t I? In a nutshell, at least.”

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat. He remembers Dean’s words clearly, spoken in defense of his refusal to believe in God. He remembers the adamancy that no God would allow a mother to be killed by something so vile in her own son’s nursery.

“Your mother was killed by a demon.”

Dean laughs bitterly, scrubbing a hand across his face and resting it over his jaw. “Sammy was just a baby,” he says, his voice choked to a near whisper. “All my dad saw—or remembers seeing, anyway—of the son of a bitch that did it was that he had yellow eyes. It was that yellow-eyed bastard that pushed my dad to raise us as hunters in the first place.”

For a brief moment, Castiel cannot help but imagine what his mate would have been like had he not been a hunter. Softer, for sure. Perhaps more trusting.

Castiel would not trade _his_ Dean for all the universe, of course, but that doesn’t keep his heart from aching at the thought.

Dean shakes his head, oblivious to his mate’s inner grief. His eyes drift to a point in space somewhere over Castiel’s shoulder. “Feels weird to finally be able to put a name to the son of a bitch that ruined our lives. _Azazel_.”

“Dean,” Castiel says with forced calm. His heart pounds in his chest, sped by the many implications that this new information casts on the demons’ attack. “If your family has history with Azazel, it is more than likely that Jess was not the true target in this strike. You have to realize that.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, “yeah, Cas, I know. If this really is the same demon, then he probably targeted Jess to get at Sam in some way.”

“Yes.” Castiel grips Dean’s knees for support as he adjusts his position in front of him, moving from his crouch to sit on his knees. He absently rubs his thumbs in circles on the insides of the joints. “We will figure this out though, Dean, I promise you. Whatever Azazel wants with Sam, we will stop him. _Together_.”

Dean smiles slightly, the expression thin but genuine. “Yeah, Cas, I know.” He then grabs a handful of Cas’ hair and pulls him in for a surprisingly tender kiss.

Their lips slide together leisurely, moving with no rush, no end-goal. Castiel keeps his hands on Dean’s knees, but he doesn’t need any more physical contact than that to know how completely his mate relaxes. His scent amplifies as he pours everything he has into the kiss, smelling more of cherries than leather as arousal takes root. Dean’s scent is so sweet, so tempting—

It almost smells like an omega in heat.

The realization makes Castiel gasp. He pulls back just far enough to look into Dean’s dazed, green eyes, searching for the tell-tale threads of omega-gold that would be woven into the irises of a full omega at this point. When he finds none, he is hit with a sharp, disorienting mix of both relief and disappointment.

Regardless of his feelings on the matter, it’s happening faster than he anticipated.

They _really_ need to talk about it.

“Cas?” Dean asks, his voice huskier than usual. “What’s wrong, babe?”

They need to talk about it _soon_ , but still, that doesn’t have to mean _now_ , right? It’s a conversation that can wait until the situation with Azazel has calmed some.

He presses a kiss to the center of Dean’s forehead. “Nothing is wrong, beloved,” he answers truthfully. “But we should probably check in with the others. Sam seemed quite upset when he left.”

“Ah, shit, you’re right” Dean says, breathing deeply. “The kid’s probably beating himself up over what happened to Jess now that he knows he’s connected.”

“Most likely, yes. As I said already, we will do everything in our power to stop Azazel, but we don’t know what he’s—”

“Wrong again, Cassie,” Gabriel interrupts, suddenly popping back into the room several feet from Dean and Castiel. He holds Jess by the arm in one hand and Sam in the other, both looking thoroughly confused while Gabriel himself is stone-faced. He shoves Sam in their direction, sending him staggering. “Look,” Gabriel instructs.

Castiel exchanges a wary look with Dean before getting to his feet and closing the distance between himself and the younger Winchester. He is distantly aware of Dean following him, but he directs his focus to the soul hiding behind Sam’s hazel eyes.

At a cursory glance, Sam Winchester’s soul is rich and golden, much like his elder brother’s, only with silvery undertones. That obviously is not what Gabriel is referring to, though, so Castiel peers a bit deeper—

And instantly recoils, bumping into Dean as he retreats. Dean is immediately concerned, touching at Cas’ arms and demanding an explanation. His words are nothing more than white noise to Castiel’s ears.

Sam looks afraid.

 _He doesn’t know_ , Castiel realizes. Sam Winchester has no idea what is inside him. How could he?

But how could he not know?

“Gabriel—”

“I know.”

“But how—?”

“Red flags have been popping up all around the globe. We just didn’t have anything to connect them to until now.”

“Hey!” Dean shouts, stepping between the two angels. “Can someone _please_ tell us what the _fuck_ is happening?”

Castiel takes a steadying breath and meets Sam’s eyes. He summarizes as best he can: “Sam is tainted with demon blood.”

Dean makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and Sam chokes out a thin “W-what?”

Gabriel flies the short distance to stand next to Sam and stares up at him, his expression hard. “Azazel’s building an army,” he says, “and he prepped you to lead it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel still cannot help but be vaguely ashamed that he didn’t know. A part of Michael’s division or not, a scheme building up for as long as Azazel’s has been should have been _noticed_. In fact, it should have been _standard knowledge_ amongst the angels.
> 
> An army also should not have been allowed to develop as far as Azazel’s has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my awesome beta, [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com)!

The silence in the Impala is oppressive. There is no conversation, no radio—only the roar of the vehicle’s engine and the ambient noise of the road.

Dean hasn’t spoken since he got behind the wheel, some hundreds of miles back.

In the backseat, Sam stares listlessly out the window. He, too, has been quiet since they left. Though, his own personal brand of brooding has varied from his elder brother’s; more frowns and furrowed brows, less glaring and angry headshakes.

Jess is asleep next to her boyfriend. She had given up after several failed attempts to get the Winchesters to “talk about their problems.” Unsurprisingly, neither brother had been excited by the prospect.

Castiel, for his part, is counting down the minutes until Gabriel’s return. The archangel had departed shortly after his vague proclamation about Sam leading Azazel’s demon army, promising to do some snooping in Heaven and come back with more information.

Until that happens, though, there is not much they can do. It was on Dean’s insistence that they had all piled into the car and set out towards the home of a family friend a few states over. From what Castiel understands of Dean’s (brief) explanation, Bobby Singer has been just as much a father-figure to the Winchester boys as John has.

What Castiel does not understand, however, is what it is, exactly, that Dean expects Bobby to be able to _do_ about their current situation. Family friend or not, Bobby Singer does not possess the ability to stop Azazel’s army, nor can he remove the taint of demon blood from Sam’s being.

Or perhaps going to Bobby has simpler reasoning, Castiel thinks—moral support, maybe.

As he sits and ponders, well, _everything_ , Castiel’s thoughts drift to Azazel himself, and the army he is apparently assembling. It is not surprising that Gabriel knows more about the subject than Castiel does, because not only does Gabriel outrank Castiel, but his division also has different responsibilities than Michael’s, where Castiel had been stationed until recently. If there is an army on the rise in Hell, Gabriel would have heard of it.

That being said, Castiel still cannot help but be vaguely ashamed that he _didn’t_ know. A part of Michael’s division or not, a scheme building up for as long as Azazel’s has been should have been _noticed_. In fact, it should have been _standard knowledge_ amongst the angels.

An army also should not have been allowed to develop as far as Azazel’s has.

And if Sam Winchester was ‘prepped’ for leadership, how many others have been drafted into the same position? How many other humans are now not quite human at all, but made to be part-demon without their consent? Even if Sam is high on Azazel’s priority list, as the number of demons involved in Palo Alto proves, it would be illogical for anyone seeking to raise an army to not have a line of qualified contenders for such a crucial command position.

So where _are_ the others?

It’s a troubling question, to say the least.

Somewhere in the center of Pennsylvania, Sam falls asleep. His position is far less dignified than Jess’—who is curled against the door—with his legs askew and head reclined back, his mouth gaping open ridiculously.

It is only after Sam drops off that the silence in the car finally cracks.

“So, Cas,” Dean says casually, as though he has not been mute for the past several hours, “that sigil Jess used back at their apartment—I know it didn’t work right, but if it _had_ , what would it have done to you? You would have been ‘banished’, yeah, but what does that _mean_ , exactly?”

The question is posed innocently enough, coming across as nothing more than honest curiosity, but Cas knows better. Subtle though it may be, his mate’s scent is laced with anxiety, likely directed toward the would-bes and could-have-beens of Castiel’s safety.

Dean’s concern is touching, but the question itself makes something inside Castiel twinge. If the banishing sigil had done its job… Well. Castiel isn’t quite sure how the situation in Palo Alto would have ended.

“When properly activated, the sigil Jess drew sends away any angel in the immediate vicinity. Had I not been tethered to you, I would have been thrown thousands of miles away, unable to return for a number of hours, depending on how much of my grace was exhausted in the process.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly at the implication. “If we were separated—or, if we _are_ separated—what would we do? Let’s say that sigil _had_ worked and sent your feathered ass to bum-fuck Egypt or whatever. How would you have…” As he lets the sentence trail off, the fear in his scent thickens, becomes more pungent.

Castiel rests a hand on the crook of Dean’s arm, a soothing touch to reaffirm his presence. “I would have found you, Dean,” he assures. “I will _always_ find you, no matter what it takes.”

Dean swallows thickly. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, though he moves his arm up so that their palms slide together. “Promise?”

“I promise.” Cas tightens his fingers minutely around Dean’s. “I will always be able to find you wherever you are, but if you ever doubt that, you can pray to me.”

The tense set of Dean’s shoulders finally dissipates, and he shoots Castiel a curious look from the corner of his eye. “ _Pray_ to you?” he repeats. “I ain’t exactly the praying type, Cas.”

“Perhaps not. However, if you pray to me specifically I will hear it, wherever I may be.”

“That’s it? All I have to do is pray, what, like people pray to God?”

“Yes, except you use _my_ name instead of my Father’s. My _full_ name, which is Castiel, in case you have forgotten,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

Dean lets out a surprised laugh. “Oh, _ha ha_. So fuckin’ funny, aren’t ya?” He shoots the angel a grin. “It’s not my fault that _Castiel_ has more syllables than I prefer to deal with, alright? _Cas_ rolls off the tongue a hell of a lot easier, and you know what? It suits you.”

Castiel nods, fighting back another smile. “Of course, Dean.”

Dean laughs again, louder this time. His whole body moves with the action, his head tipping back and stretching the column of his neck gloriously. “Don’t _mock me_ , you dick!”

“I apologize,” Cas says, chuckling softly. He swipes his thumb across the back of Dean’s hand in a placating gesture.

Silence creeps back into the Impala, but unlike before, it is comfortable, relaxed. Dean’s mood has greatly improved, and with both of the backseat passengers unconscious for the time being, there is no additional source of stress in the vehicle.

After several quiet minutes have passed, Dean surprises Castiel by speaking again. He asks, “Does the prayer have to be said out loud?”

Castiel’s brow furrows. He had thought the topic of prayers was dropped. “No,” he replies, “though it is typically easier for humans to focus and direct their thoughts when spoken than otherwise.”

Dean nods, but doesn’t otherwise respond.

A few more moments pass, and then a prayer rings through Castiel’s mind, in perfect clarity. He only just refrains from laughing aloud at its contents.

Castiel does not verbally acknowledge Dean’s prayer, but he releases Dean’s hand from his own and slides it over to the belt of Dean’s jeans, where he deftly undoes the button and zipper.

Dean nearly chokes on his own tongue. “ _Cas_!” he cries, eyes bugging out of his head when Cas’ hand dips halfway into his boxers to stroke his rapidly-hardening flesh. “I was _joking_ , man! You don’t actually have to—!”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts. “I _want_ to. Are you capable of driving while I do this?”

“I—” Dean makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat when his boxers are pulled completely out of the way. Arousal and excitement bloom in his scent, thick and sweet and making Castiel’s mouth water. “Yeah—yeah, I can handle it. But what about— _Oh, fuck_.”

Castiel twists his wrist again, grinning when Dean shudders. “They will not wake.”

And then he bends himself in half and dips down to wrap his lips around Dean’s swollen cock. He teases at the underside of the head with his tongue before plunging down to the base, relaxing his throat to allow Dean in.

Dean moans quietly, his hips twitching sharply at the stimulation. It’s obvious from his muffled gasps that he truly fears his brother and Jess will wake, but that fear does not stop him from encouraging his mate further. He drops a hand to the top of Castiel’s head, compelling the angel to bob his head several times, swirling his tongue all the while.

Cas sets a steady yet brutal pace, doing everything he can to get his mate to the edge as quickly as possible. He uses a hand to massage Dean’s balls and the base of his dick, occasionally dipping his fingers even lower to try and sweep across the pucker of his hole. Each time he pulls back to the point where his mouth is only around the head, the angel tongues at the slit, tasting the precome that gathers there.

Dean’s fingers tighten in his hair. “ _Cas_ ,” he pants, “I’m gonna—”

Castiel hums his approval around Dean’s length, and that is all it takes for Dean to reach his climax. His release floods down Castiel’s throat, warm and a tad bit salty, and Cas swallows it all down without question. After a few moments, he lets Dean’s spent cock slide from his lips and tucks it back into his pants, hiding all evidence that anything happened.

Castiel settles back into his seat, smirking in satisfaction. He catches Dean’s eye just as he licks his lips, moving his tongue slowly and exaggerating the motion, just to have the chance to watch Dean’s lust-blown eyes follow its path.

When Dean finally raises his eyes to Castiel’s again and finds the angel still staring, his face colors with a blush. He whips his head away and forces his attention back to the road, muttering under his breath, “ _Fucking hell_.”

Cas cannot help but chuckle at that. “Something wrong, beloved?”

“ _Wrong_ isn’t quite the word I would use,” Dean snorts. “Though there’s something worrying in the fact that the best head I’ve ever gotten in my life is from a fucking _angel of the Lord_. Seriously, Cas—how the _fuck_ are you so good at that? Is that how angels spend their free time or something, sucking each other off?”

“I have no _practice_ , Dean,” Castiel says, his forehead creased with a frown. “Many angels _do_ have physical relationships with one another, but I never had occasion. Most of the… _skills_ I utilize during sexual acts are guided by alpha instinct, more than anything.”

“So being an ‘alpha’ goes hand-in-hand with being a sex god? Is that what you’re telling me right now?”

“Don’t be absurd. I am not a god. Matings are very important to our species, our way of life, and mates are as entwined as two beings can possibly be. For the knowledge to come naturally, at least on some level, is logical.” Castiel pauses, his smile returning. “Although it is possible that I _am_ just good at it.”

Dean laughs and playfully smacks Cas on the shoulder. “Glad you’re so modest, babe. But, uh… You want me to help you out with _that_?” He looks pointedly at Castiel’s lap, where his cock has been hard and straining against the zipper of his jeans since Dean’s prayer.

Castiel considers it, though only briefly. Dean managed to contain himself and continue driving the Impala while being pleasured, but Castiel is positive that his own reactions would be far less easily controlled. He had failed spectacularly when he first met Dean, after all.

So he shakes his head, electing to allow the erection to pass. “I can wait, thank you. Jess will be waking up soon, anyway.”

Castiel has been closely monitoring the states of both rear-seat passengers, ready to intervene and keep them asleep if need be. Jess has just begun showing signs of wakefulness, though Sam is still far from it.

Dean sticks his lower lip out in a pout. “Damn. Guess I’ll just have to make it up to you later, then.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

A moment passes.

“Your first time was seriously with a _stripper_?”

“Are you complaining?”

Behind Castiel, Jess stirs and lets out a yawn, asking around it, “What was that about strippers?”

Dean clears his throat loudly. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jess gives him a weird look and shakes her head. “How much farther until Bobby’s?”

Dean sighs, the near-miss visibly breaking his good mood. “About fifteen more hours,” he replies. “Do you need me to make a stop?”

“Nah, I’m alright. Thank you, though.” She turns and stretches across the seat, unceremoniously dumping her feet across Sam’s lap. When her boyfriend does not stir, Jess rolls her eyes. “Hey, Dean or Cas, can one of you turn some music on, please? The silence is still a little too _man pain_ for my liking.”

“You didn’t have to tag along, you know,” Dean reminds her, not unkindly. “A lot of shit hit the fan all at once, so no one would be offended if—”

“Oh, can it,” Jess interrupts, her voice teasing. “I know you’re just in ‘big brother’ mode, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve lived with supernatural shit for years, remember? And besides…” She smiles in Sam’s direction. “I’m pretty into your brother, in case you haven’t noticed. I won’t leave him—not now, not ever.”

The genuine adoration in her voice makes Castiel smile. He himself has spoken similar words of devotion to Dean, _about_ Dean, and he no doubt sounded equally in love. The similarity makes him wonder if Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore are soulmates.

It is very possible, he reasons. And if that is the case, the loss of Jess’ life would have been even more destructive for Sam. The demons’ attack would have to be considered even more brutal, and intentional, as well.

“Yeah,” Dean says to her, “I know. I get it. Just figured I’d say it again.”

Jess smiles sweetly. “I appreciate it, Dean. You’re a good guy.” She reaches forward and pats him on the shoulder, quickly but affectionately. “Now—music? Please?”

“Jesus, hold your horses,” Dean chuckles. He flicks on the Impala’s radio and tunes the dial until he finds a station playing the rock music he is so fond of. He obviously knows the song, if his bobbing head and drumming hands are any indication. The song comes to an end after mere seconds, however, and gives way to another.

Castiel recognizes the next song. It sends his heart pounding in his chest.

It’s a different version than the one that played at the club, layered over the sounds of cheering fans, but the lyrics ‘You shook me all night long’ are unmistakable.

Memories from the club instantly begin flashing through Castiel’s mind—Dean’s tight black top and red panties, the swivel of his hips, the heat of his skin…

The sound of Dean’s muffled laughter pulls Castiel from his reverie. Dean very clearly knows exactly what is going through his mate’s mind, and he says with mock casualness, “Hey, babe, it’s our song. It’s like they played it _just for us_ , huh?”

Then— _Father help him_ —Dean begins to swivel his hips in his seat, thrusting lightly into the air, just enough movement for Castiel to see, but for Jess to remain oblivious. Dean raises the volume a few notches and begins to lose himself to the music and the subtle, corresponding moves of his body. An easy grin spreads across his face, one that Cas recognizes with fondness.

Though, frankly, that _fondness_ , as well as whatever amusement he may have felt at the situation, is quickly overtaken by _need_. His budding rut rears its head up at the sight of his mate teasing him in such a way. Perhaps Dean’s current actions are tame—especially in comparison to the blowjob, not twenty minutes prior—but they drag along the feelings of their first meeting, their first mating. He wants to _touch_ , to _take_ , and yet he _can’t_.

And Dean knows this full-well.

That insufferable _tease_.

Castiel takes a deep breath, his jaw clenched tightly, and fights to contain himself. One instance of self-denial was a trial, but a _second_? Dean’s scent is so sweet, buoyed by his light, playful attitude, that Castiel doubts his abilities.

He turns his mind to Gabriel to distract himself, asking his brother, **_Are you returning soon?_**

Gabriel responds right away. **_Aw, Cassie! Missing me already?_**

 ** _Something like that._** Just then, Dean catches his eye and winks. Castiel almost groans aloud. He raises a finger at Dean in what he knows is a crude gesture, garnering a laugh in response.

**_Gabe, please. The sooner you return, the sooner_ we _can start looking for answers. You know I cannot fly us to South Dakota myself, not until my grace returns to full strength._**

**_Oh, jeez, just give me a few minutes, alright? I have to make an appointment with Raphael’s_ secretary _. You ever wonder why Raph’s such a dick?_**

**_I try to limit my interactions with Raphael, you know that._ **

“Cas? You alright there, buddy?”

Castiel startles slightly. He had slipped farther into his conversation with his brother than he intended, and seems to have missed the end of the song. “I apologize, I was speaking with Gabriel.”

“Right.” Dean nods. “Angel radio. I forgot.”

“ _Angel radio_?”

“Yeah. It’s like you’re radioing to each other. And you’re angels. _Angel radio_.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m funny and you know it.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Oh my _god_ , you two are _disgusting_ ,” a second, deeper backseat voice interjects.

“Hey!” Dean grabs the rearview mirror and tilts it so he can glare at Sam. “No one asked you, bitch.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Maybe not, _jerk_ , but I still had to remind you that you have company before things got even _weirder_.”

Dean grins. “Sammy, you don’t even _know_ weird.”

Jess giggles, while Sam just scoffs and says, “Dean, don’t be gross.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Dean says loudly, looking to Cas. “What were you talking to Gabe about?”

“He is returning soon.”

Sam asks, “Did he find anything?”

Gabriel, of course, chooses that moment to appear in the vehicle, wedging himself in the backseat between Sam and Jess. “I’ve got diddly-squat so far, fellas.” He pauses to take a breath through his nose, which wrinkles in distaste. “It smells like sex in here. Can you crack a window, Dean-o?”

Dean flushes bright red, but does as he is asked.

“Fucking _assholes_ ,” Sam mutters, glaring at the pair in the front seat.

Gabe claps his hands once and rubs his palms together. “So! Where we goin’, kiddos?”

“Sioux Falls, South Dakota,” Castiel tells him, and within moments, they’re driving past a ‘Welcome to Sioux Falls’ sign.

“Dude!” Dean exclaims, the Impala swerving in its lane as he jerks in surprise at the sudden change in scenery. He turns the rearview mirror again, this time so he can see the archangel. “Can you give me a bit of a heads up or something next time? I’m trying to _drive_ , dickhead.”

“Oh, please,” Gabriel says, waving a hand dismissively. “Nothing _bad_ was gonna happen, alright? Besides, I just saved you idiots a day’s worth of driving. Last I checked, there were better things you could be doing with your time.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean concedes with a sigh. “At least you didn’t ditch my car this time.”

Gabriel smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Dean-o.”

Dean and Gabriel manage to keep up a steady banter for the remainder of the drive to Bobby’s, with only the occasional interjection from Sam or Jess. Castiel just sits back and listens, amused by their antics.

Bobby Singer’s house, when they arrive, is far messier than Castiel would have imagined based off of Dean’s description of the man himself. The salvage yard that is set up outside the main building is filled with rusted, broken cars, stacked high and arranged into sloppy rows. The house itself also looks to be in need of maintenance, or at least a fresh coat of paint.

Dean parks the Impala in front of the home, next to a blue truck. On the hood of said truck lies a large, black dog, seemingly unbothered by the intruders. Even when they begin to unload from their vehicle, the dog does nothing more than raise its head in casual interest.

“Rumsfeld!” Dean calls, bending over slightly and patting at his thighs. “Come here, boy!”

Rumsfeld barks once and rests his head back on his paws.

Dean laughs to himself. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Lazy old thing.”

At that moment, the front door opens on squeaky hinges to reveal a man who can only be Bobby Singer, the beard and trucker’s cap certainly matching what Dean had described of him. He holds a shotgun loosely in one hand and stares at the group with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

“Dean? Sam?” he says. “What the hell are you boys doin’ here?” He eyes Jess and the two angels warily. “And who’re your friends?”

“We…” Dean rubs nervously at the back of his neck. “It’s a long story, Bobby. You mind if we come in?”

Bobby narrows his eyes at the eldest Winchester boy for several moments before stepping aside, a clear invitation for everyone to enter.

Dean takes point, and claps Bobby on the shoulder as he passes him. “Thanks, Bobby. We’ll explain everything, I promise.”

~

The six of them cram into Bobby’s cluttered living room, Sam and Jess sitting themselves on the couch while Dean paces, with the angels standing together off to the side. Bobby fetches a cold bottle of beer for each of them before settling himself on the opposite side of the room, leaning against the edge of a paper-strewn table.

Bobby gives Dean an inscrutable look. “Any time you feel like explainin’ would be great, boy,” he says gruffly. “Unless you’d rather wear a hole in my carpet, that is.”

Dean’s pacing comes to a stop. He twists the cap off his beer and takes a long swig before speaking. “Bobby, this is Jess, Sam’s girlfriend.” He gestures to Jess—Bobby mutters a ‘pleased to meet you’—before pointing to Gabriel and Castiel in turn. “And this is Gabriel the archangel, and Castiel, my… husband, of sorts.”

Gabriel snorts. “ _Of sorts_.”

Bobby’s eyebrows shoot up into the shadow of his cap. “Care to run those last two by me again?”

Gabriel takes this as an opportunity to show off, and flies the short distance to stand directly in front of Bobby, allowing his golden wings to become visible for a second before tucking them away again. He pulls a lollipop out of thin air and sticks it in his mouth before holding a hand out for the man to shake. “Gabriel. _The_. Nice to meet you.”

Bobby stares at Gabriel in bewilderment for a moment before finally grasping the archangel’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, too, I guess,” he replies.

Satisfied, Gabriel flies to the couch, where he props himself atop the arm.

Dean and Castiel both roll their eyes.

Bobby looks between the two of them, his eyes narrowing once again. “And what was this you said about a _husband_?”

Dean’s face pales. “I— Um. Cas?”

Castiel walks to his mate’s side, lightly brushing his fingers across the exposed skin of his forearm to comfort him. The gesture has the desired effect, and tension begins to seep from the stiff set of Dean’s shoulders.

Bobby takes this all in in silence. He offers his hand to the angel, saying, “Castiel, was it? Angel of Thursday, am I right?”

“Yes, that is correct,” Castiel says, shaking Bobby’s hand. He does not look closely at Bobby Singer’s soul, but what he sees of the silvery-blue tangle is fraught with pain and loss, along with a strong compassion for the Winchester boys. “And ‘husband’ is not quite the correct term for mine and Dean’s relationship, but it is a close equivalent by human standards.”

“Uh huh.” Bobby looks him over closely, scrutinizing everything from his clothes—jeans and the borrowed AC/DC shirt, both thankfully relieved of blood stains—to his hair, which Cas is sure is even more tousled than usual, considering his actions with Dean in the Impala. “How’d you two meet, anyhow?”

“Work,” Dean says quickly.

“So I didn’t miss a wedding, did I?”

“No— Wait. That’s all you have to say about this?” Dean asks. “You don’t… care?”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Boy, if you think I care who you choose to love, you got another thing comin’. I know your daddy and I are friends, but that doesn’t mean we have the same beliefs.”

Dean swallows thickly. “Thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby nods. He stares at Castiel for several more moments, and eventually just says, “Hurt him and I’ll hurt you.”

On the other side of the room, Gabriel laughs. He stage-whispers to Sam and Jess, “I like this guy!”

Castiel’s lips twitch up in a smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough touchy-feely shit, Jesus,” Dean says, grabbing Cas by the hand and pulling him away from Bobby to stop any further interactions. “We didn’t just come here to show off our new friends. We need help, Bobby. The big kind.”

With help from Sam, Dean tells Bobby everything about Azazel and the attack on Jess. Castiel has to step in to explain Sam’s demon blood when both boys become too tongue-tied to form the proper words—and handing Dean the second half of his beer to pacify him after Dean’s own is drained—but aside from that, the explanation goes smoothly, and Bobby seems to understand.

Bobby’s first and only question is, “Where’s John in all this? Why isn’t he here, too?”

Dean tenses at Castiel’s side. Not much has been said about John Winchester since Dean and Cas first left Dean’s Los Angeles motel room so long ago. In fact, Castiel does not even think Dean got around to telling Sam the purpose of their trip to Palo Alto in the first place.

“We haven’t seen Dad,” Sam says. “We came here first because you were closer. Gabe had already zapped us to New Jersey.”

Dean clears his throat to gain their attention. “Dad, uh… Dad’s on a hunt. He’s been out of contact for about three weeks.”

Sam jumps up from the couch, glaring at his brother. “What the hell, Dean! You didn’t tell me _that_!”

“I was going to, alright?” Dean shouts in return. “Sorry for being distracted by a fucking _legion of demons_.”

Some of the fight goes out of Sam at that, but not all of it. He still looks at Dean accusingly and demands, “What was he hunting? And where were _you_ , why weren’t you with him?”

“Dad’s a grown man, Sam, he doesn’t need me hanging around! He didn’t tell me shit before he took off, like usual. And I was on a hunt of my own, what part of that did you miss?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, cut it out, you idjits,” Bobby sighs. “Bitchin’ at each other ain’t gonna get you anywhere. We’ll find John, too, alright? And Sam, we’ll straighten this Azazel business out, you hear me, boy? With John or without him.”

Both Winchesters drop out of their battle stances and adopt apologetic expressions. Dean drifts over to stand next to Castiel, pressing against his side and soaking up his presence, while Sam looks up at Bobby with wide, innocent eyes, contrition plain on his face.

“Okay, Bobby,” he says. “Thank you.”

Bobby snorts. “Don’t thank me, boy, I ain’t done nothin’ yet. We’ll have to do some research, figure out how we want to handle all of this. Where you boys want to start?”

“Start at the root of the problem,” Gabriel says with a shrug, still perched on the arm of the couch. “Azazel.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Probably,” Bobby agrees, poring over a dust-ridden, Latin manuscript. “Chances are, this jackass has been biding his time, waiting for the right chance to raise his army. Kinda thing doesn’t happen overnight, after all. It’s more than likely that he knew that when he did make his move, it would have to come outta the blue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> So sorry for being late with this chapter, but just as I was afraid of, my time to dedicate to working on this chapter was severely limited. And what did I do with the time I had? Wrote ficlets on tumblr. I'm a horrible procrastinator, and someone should yell at me. You have my deepest apologies, sweet readers.
> 
> Also, a note for this chapter:  
> As you've noticed, this fic follows a lot of canon from the beginning of season one. However, some back-story timelines are different in this verse, as you will see. Just go with it, yeah?
> 
> And finally, as always, shout out to [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com), the best beta to ever beta.

Bobby’s resources, vast as they may be, are sorely lacking in information on Azazel or his cronies. Gabriel had taken the research assignment as his cue to continue following up on leads in Heaven, and made a quick exit. In his absence, the group searched through countless books, ancient tomes, and even websites, and yet they still come out of it knowing no more than they did going in.

“So this Azazel guy must stick to the shadows a lot, huh?” Jess says, her eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. “At least among humans, anyway, or else he would have been better documented than this.”

“Probably,” Bobby agrees, poring over a dust-ridden, Latin manuscript. “Chances are, this jackass has been biding his time, waiting for the right chance to raise his army. Kinda thing doesn’t happen overnight, after all. It’s more than likely that he knew that when he _did_ make his move, it would have to come outta the blue.”

Dean slams his own book shut, shaking his head. “ _Fuck_. So we really got nothing to go off of here? What are we going to do?”

After a beat of silence, Castiel suggests, “We can attempt to track Azazel.”

Sam leans back in his chair, his brow furrowed. “Track?” he asks. “How would we do that?”

“A demon as powerful as Azazel will likely be leaving a trail of omens,” Castiel explains. “When he utilizes a large amount of power, there will be natural disturbances; unusual fluctuations in weather, crop failures, noticeable deaths en masse… I would imagine hunters of your caliber are capable of it.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Finally, Dean shakes his head and says, “You couldn’t have told us that three hours ago? Cas. We wouldn’t have even wasted half our time with these shitty old books.

Castiel frowns. “I would hardly call it a waste of time,” he retorts. “There was still the possibility that new information may have been discovered about Azazel, and now we know that the books were a dead end. I think that still counts as progress, don’t you?”

Dean scoffs. “ _Progress_.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam cuts in, rolling his eyes. He turns to Castiel. “Let’s say we can actually track Azazel, then. What would you recommend? How do we go about doing that?”

“Azazel is most likely well shielded, if his past activities are anything to go by,” Castiel says, mentally running through everything he knows of the demon. “If that is the case, tracking spells and the like will be useless. The criteria I mentioned previously occur with any large fluctuation of demonic energy, of course, but given the circumstances, I believe false leads are a risk we cannot avoid.”

Bobby stands from the table he had been stationed at and moves to another desk across the room, nodding absently. “I think we could pull it off,” he says as he rifles through stacks of paper. “Following leads like that’ll make it easy to search for John, too. I don’t think any of us are suited to the task of _making_ a program that could track all that nonsense, but I know someone who can.” He slams his hands against the desk, evidently giving up on his search. “Damn it. Sam, Dean, one of you wouldn’t happen to have Ash’s number on hand, would ya?”

“ _Ash_ Ash?” Dean asks, looking excited. “Ash as in _Roadhouse_ Ash?”

“What other Ash would I be talkin’ about, boy?”

“Uh… right. Well. Fine, whatever. Yeah, I have his number, you grumpy old bastard.”

Sam makes a face. “Dean, why the hell do you have Ash’s number?”

For a moment Dean looks spooked by the question, though he quickly covers it with exaggerated offense. “What? Am I not allowed to be friends with the guy?”

Castiel watches his mate with silent interest. There is very obviously something about this _Ash_ that Dean isn’t telling his brother. But why?

Jess cuts off Castiel’s musings with a loud groan. “Oh my _god_ , are you guys always like this when you’re together? Bobby, how the hell can you _stand_ it?”

“You get used to it,” Bobby answers with a shrug. “Though occasionally you gotta knock their heads together real good to straighten ‘em out.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Do you want me to call Ash or not?” Dean asks loudly, glaring at the pair. When Bobby gestures for him to get on with it, Dean hits a few buttons on his phone and raises it to his ear.

Castiel listens intently to the device, hearing what no one save Dean can hear. The phone rings several times before picking up on a prerecorded message.

“ _You have reached the personal number of the one and only Dr. Badass. If this is a booty-call, press one. If this call is for any other reason, press two._ ”

Dean sighs and presses two. He returns the phone to his ear. It rings a few more times.

“Dr. Badass speaking.”

“Hey, Ash! It’s Dean.”

“Dean! Been a while, amigo! You know you connected to my ‘professional services’ line, right?”

Dean looks up and briefly catches Castiel’s eye, blushing lightly when he realizes the angel is already staring. He clears his throat and averts his gaze, focusing back on the phone call. “Yeah, no, I know. This isn’t… that. I need to call in one of the favors you owe me, actually.”

Across the line, Ash laughs. “Are you _sure_ this isn’t something better suited for line one?”

Dean’s blush darkens a shade, and his avoidance of Castiel’s eyes becomes even more obvious. “Jesus, Ash, can you let me explain, please? This is important.”

“I’m listening.”

“We’re trying to track a demon. You think you could help us out? We already have a list of omens to look out for, if that helps.”

Ash is quiet for a moment before saying, “I can do it. Give me what you got.”

Dean breathes out a sigh of relief. “Okay, let me put you on speaker. Bobby and Sam will give you the rundown.” Dean stands and hands the phone off, then touches a hand to the exposed skin of Cas’ forearm. “Cas, can I talk to you for a second?”

Castiel follows his mate out the front door of the house and into the salvage yard. Dean twitches the whole way, walking until he is sure they cannot be seen nor heard from the house before spinning on his heel to face Cas.

“Were you listening in on the call?” he asks, a weird expression on his face. “Both sides, I mean.”

“Yes,” Castiel answers truthfully, tilting his head as he watches Dean. He wonders where his mate is going with this.

Dean nods, more to himself than to Cas. “That’s what I thought. Ash… He didn’t mean anything by what he said, about booty calls. Well, he _did_ mean it, but not very seriously. Ash is just kind of a flirt, you know? But I haven’t even seen the guy in person in almost a year, and he _is_ my friend outside of that. I mean, he’s helped me a shit ton with getting money to Sam. But really, me and him were never—”

Castiel silences him with a raised hand. “What you mean to say is that he is not a threat to our relationship. Is that correct?”

“Right. He’s not, really. I slept with him once—twice?—and I was pretty wasted when it happened. It was only sex, anyway.”

Castiel steps in closer to his mate and cups a hand around his jaw to pull him into a tender kiss, easing his worries with the easy movements of their lips. It seems to do the trick, as Dean practically melts into Cas. After a moment, Castiel detaches their lips to instead lean their foreheads together. He smiles at the dazed look in Dean’s eyes. “Dean, your past relationships do not bother me. I would intervene only if Ash were a clear threat to you or our relationship, and so far it seems to me that he is not.”

“Okay,” Dean replies, his head rubbing against Castiel’s when he nods. “Okay, yeah. I get it. I only brought you out here because I wanted to make sure you weren’t jumping to conclusions.” The corners of his mouth lift with a grin. “Wouldn’t want you going all attack dog on one of my friends, after all, even if it is pretty damn sexy.”

Castiel chuckles, swaying closer to Dean. “Yes, I know how much you like that. Is it safe for me to assume that your family does not know about your sexual history with Ash?”

“Not exactly.” Dean looks down at their feet as he speaks, idly tangling a hand in the back of Castiel’s hair in what the angel suspects to be a nervous movement. “They, uh… They didn’t know I was bi before meeting you, actually. Spontaneous angel mate kind of forced the cat out of the bag on that one.”

“Dean, if you were not comfortable—”

“Shut up, that’s not what I meant. It was bound to come out eventually, right? Or rather, _I_ was bound to come out eventually. Whatever. Point is, it’s fine. I don’t mind. It’s weird to be open about it, but it’s kind of nice, too. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, I understand. I am glad our meeting helped you through that, then.”

Dean only hums in response. He makes no move to distance himself from Cas, and after a moment, he presses his nose in close to the angel’s neck and breathes deeply.

Castiel forces himself to stay outwardly calm for his mate’s sake, but panic sends his heart racing in his chest. He inhales Dean’s own steady scent to ease his nerves, his nose hovering just over Dean’s likely-still-tender mating bite where the smell is strongest. He grazes his lips over the mark, just to make Dean sink further into his relaxed, content state.

If Dean is scenting, Castiel is running out of time.

“Dean, there’s—”

“Dean, Cas? You guys alright out here?”

Castiel nearly groans. Sam may not know it, but his timing is _very_ poor.

Dean gives Castiel a strange look—probably because he senses the sudden spike of annoyance in his mate’s scent—and takes a half step away to more easily glare at his younger brother as he walks closer. “What do you want, Sam?”

Sam’s face, when Castiel turns enough to see it, is blank, devoid of all emotion. He stares at his brother steadily, not sparing a glance for Castiel even when he speaks. “Cas, Ash and the others have a few possible leads, if you want to go help them out. I need to talk to Dean, if that’s alright. Alone.”

Dean exhales heavily and turns to Cas, the hand that had previously been at the back of the angel’s head sliding down to catch on a hand instead, squeezing tightly in reassurance. “Can we talk later?” he asks quietly, his voice pitched too low for Sam to hear, some feet away. “I really should talk to Sam. He’s been giving me a _look_ for hours, now. Honestly, I’m surprised it took him this long to corner me.”

Castiel has to swallow twice before he can speak around the lump in his throat. He had been so _close_ , damn it. He plasters on a fake smile, one that he immediately knows his mate sees through. “It is not a problem, Dean,” he says, purposefully allowing Sam to hear him as well. “I will check in with the others. Should you need me, call.”

He gives Dean a quick kiss to the forehead and flies inside, disappearing and reappearing to the plane of human reality within the space of nanoseconds. Bobby has his back turned, still on the phone, but Jess startles when Castiel appears in the center of the room.

“Jesus!” she cries, clutching at her chest. “Can’t you just _walk_ , like a normal person?”

Castiel smiles thinly. “I apologize. Sam said you may have leads on Azazel?”

“Maybe not Azazel,” Bobby says over his shoulder, “but we got _somethin’_. Come take a look at this, Castiel, let me know what you think.”

Castiel steps up to the table and inspects the map spread across its surface. It’s a limited range, only covering the United States, but there are still a number of possible locations, each marked with a red cross. Three major cities are marked, along with one small town and two middle-of-nowhere-locations—a mountain range and what looks to be an expanse of farmland.

Bobby moves Dean’s phone, resting it on the table between himself and Castiel. “Ash, you wanna give Castiel here the rundown?”

“Yes sir,” Ash says brightly, though his voice is slightly distorted by poor reception. “Okay, Mr. Angel-Man, how do you want me to cover these? Best to worst, worst to best, east-west, west-east… Take your pick.”

Castiel blinks. “Whichever you prefer, I suppose.”

Ash clucks his tongue. “Let’s go east to west. Numero uno: Boston, Massachusetts. We got a minor hurricane, which came completely out of the blue, a couple of murders… Think those might actually be the work of a vamp nest, now that I look at it again.”

Bobby mutters obscenities under his breath as he reaches for his pen to update his markings. “Damn it, Ash, you could have said that before.”

Castiel’s interest is caught, though, so he ignores the older man. “Ash, what are the signs in Virginia? In the mountains?”

“The mountain thing? Let me see… They got some wild electrical storms going up there, no one’s sure why. And a lot of surrounding towns report missing persons, mostly from the last year or so.”

“That sounds pretty good,” Jess says, peeking over Castiel’s shoulder at the map. “What do you think, Cas?”

“Yes, I agree.” Castiel takes the pen Bobby had used and draws a circle around the existing cross in Virginia. “We can look into that one. What about the location in Indiana?”

“This one’s pretty shaky,” Ash admits, “but it was weird enough to warrant mentioning, even if it’s just your average hunt. We got missing persons in the area, going back at least a few years, and quite a few complaints from farm owners about crop failures and vandalism. The catch, though, is that folks that were nabbed were all first-born sons.”

Castiel shakes his head. “That would not be demons. Fairies are the more likely culprit.” Each of the three humans makes a sound of disbelief of some kind, but Castiel presses on, unconcerned by their apparent confusion. “Tell me about Denver.”

“Oh, we’re just blowin’ right past the fairy thing?” Ash says, laughing to himself. “Right. Denver, Denver, Denver… Denver’s got some wild electrical storms, but those might just be attributed to standard weather patterns for the area. Recently, though, there was a spike in reports of cattle mutilations and general crop failures, all centered around the city.”

“We can look into it.” Castiel circles Denver. “Tucson?”

“Twister in Tucson, couple of weird deaths at a water park. Now usually I’d say that that’s the work of a witch, but a couple of Arizona-based hunters have reported weird demon activity over the past few weeks.”

It’s a lead that could go either way, really. Castiel leaves the mark on the map as it is, choosing not to signal for or against it. “It is probably not Azazel,” he muses, “but if there are demons it may be possible to get information out of them.”

Ash whistles lowly. “Damn, dude, you don’t mess around, do you? Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

His choice of words nearly makes Castiel smile, reminded of his conversation with Dean. Cas had believed Dean when he insisted Ash is not a threat, especially in light of his assistance with Dean’s monetary support of his brother, and now Castiel is only reassured of that fact.

“It is not recommended,” he says simply. His smile takes full form when he hears Jess snort behind him. “The final lead is in Pioche, Nevada, correct? What happened there?”

“Everybody disappeared.”

The smile immediately falls from Castiel’s face. “Excuse me?”

“Hate to say it, compadre, but I think you heard me just fine. Pioche is a small town to begin with—about a thousand people—but a couple days ago, everyone just up and vanished. We’re talking kids, senior citizens, and everything in between. And on top of that, all animals in town were slaughtered. It’s empty, man.”

Castiel has to close his eyes against the flood of emotion that hits him. An entire city should not go _missing_ , under any circumstances. Heaven should have intervened by now, why have they not?

It doesn’t make _sense_.

A hand falls on Castiel’s shoulder, causing him to startle violently enough for the room’s lights to flicker. Jess backs away instantly, but she still looks concerned. “You alright there, Cas?”

Castiel forces himself to nod, rolling his shoulders in an effort quell his agitation. “Yes, I’m fine. We need to put priority on the incidents in Nevada and Virginia. I believe it may be effective for us to work as two teams. Does that sound reasonable?”

Over the phone, Ash says, “Okay, amigos, if you guys are gonna start talking tactics, I’m gonna bug out. I’ll give you a call if anything new pops up, though.”

Bobby slides the phone over to sit in front of him on the table. “Thanks, Ash. Let us know if you find anything. And tell Ellen I said hello.”

“Sure thing, man.” There’s a distinct click when he ends the call.

“Here,” Bobby says, handing the phone to Cas, who slides it into the pocket of his jeans without question. “Give this to your husband. I’m sure he’ll want it back eventually. And as for the hunts, I think tag teams are our best bet. You an’ Dean can take one of your priority leads, Sam an’ Jess the other. I’ll do what I can to help from here, keep my ears open for any sign of John.”

“That sounds good to me,” Jess says, studying the map. “Sam and I can take whichever you want us to, Cas. You can fly us there, right? You or Gabe, anyway. It would be nice not to have to road trip if we can avoid it.”

Castiel nods. “Transportation can be arranged. Though I would like to speak with Dean and Sam before deciding who goes where. I believe it would be best to keep Sam away from Azazel if at all possible, so you and Sam may act more as reconnaissance than anything.”

“That’s a good idea,” Bobby agrees from the other side of the table. “If that rat-bastard already has his sights set on Sam, we’ll just be sending the kid off to his death. If I find anything on John, I’ll delegate it to them, too.”

“Yes, that would be wise.”

Before any of them can say more, Sam comes through the front door, letting it slam shut behind him. Despite the violence of the action, though, he appears to be at ease when he joins the group in the living room, even going so far as to smile at Castiel when he says, “Dean asked me to send you out.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Castiel turns to Jess and Bobby to say, “Fill him in?” before flying out to meet Dean in the scrapyard. He leaves his wings out when he lands in the twilit area, opting to stretch them out while he has the chance.

Dean, sitting on the hood of one of many broken-down cars, does not look up when he arrives. He mutters a solemn, “Hey, Cas.”

Castiel frowns. He hates to see Dean like this, withdrawn into himself in every possible way. Castiel sits himself next to his mate and wraps a wing around his shoulders, pleased when Dean relaxes and leans into him.

Cas doesn’t speak. Only waits.

Eventually, Dean says, “Sam knows I’ve been sending him money.”

“And what did he say?”

Dean shrugs as best he can beneath the weight of Cas’ wing. “He was pissed. He’s pissed about a lot of things, actually. He thinks I’m getting the money illegally—and I didn’t correct him, because _fuck that_ —so he hasn’t even been using most of it ‘on principle’ or some shit. Doesn’t know Ash’s involved, at least. But then, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, he’s got a stick up his ass over the fact that I never told him about my sexuality. Says he already knew anyway, which is total bullshit, if you ask me. The kid just likes to act like he knows everything.”

Castiel tightens his wing around his mate. “Sam seemed pleasant enough when he came inside,” he says carefully. “Did you work all of this out with him?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s probably about as good as it’s gonna get for now. He says he understands, though I’m not sure how true that is.” Dean shifts to lean his head against Cas’ shoulder. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I can’t wait to get going on the hunt for Azazel. Once we’re away from my family, I’m calling for some serious marathon sex.”

Castiel laughs in surprise. He knows it’s mostly Dean’s pseudo-heat making him crave sex, but that does not make the idea any less appealing. “I believe that can be arranged. We will likely leave here soon to begin following Ash’s leads, working separately from Sam and Jess. I can tell you about what Ash has found, if you’d like.”

Dean agrees, so Castiel repeats the highlights of the conversation for him, detailing the leads that seemed worth following up on. As was to be expected, Dean is equally disturbed by the situation in Pioche as Castiel.

“You think it’s demons?” he asks, still rather sullen. “I mean that’s the only thing that would make sense, right?”

“I believe it is most likely,” Castiel agrees. “Though whether the town’s inhabitants were taken to provide vessels for demons, or used as a mass sacrifice for another instance of black magic, remains to be seen. We can take that case, if you would prefer it to the one in Virginia.”

“Which is more likely to be Azazel, do you think?”

Castiel exhales heavily. “Virginia.”

“We’ll take that one.”

“Of course. I already spoke with Bobby and Jess on the matter, and they agree we should attempt to keep Sam away from Azazel if at all possible. As such, he and Jess will primarily be responsible for the search for your father.”

Dean hums softly. “That’s fair. There’s no word on him yet, is there?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Not yet. Bobby is doing what he can.” He takes Dean’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts his head up so that their gazes meet. The green of Dean’s eyes glows like fire in the lingering light of the sunset, making the angel’s heart swell. “I promise you, Dean,” he says, lacing the words with as much sincerity as he can muster, “we will find him. We will find your father, and we will find Azazel. I swear on my Father.”

Dean gives him a shaky smile. “I hope you’re right, Cas,” he says, leaning in to brush their lips together. “I really hope you’re right.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It won’t kill us to drive there,” Dean says gruffly, ignoring the objection Sam immediately tries to launch. “I know there’s some high stakes here, I do. But we’ve always driven to hunts, and it’s always worked out just fine. And frankly, man, I need a fucking _break_. I haven’t stopped moving in three days, I’d say a twenty-hour drive is just what I need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! As an apology for uploading so late in the week last week, I give you this extra-long update. Nice, right? ^_^
> 
> And shout out to my amazing beta, [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com)! She rocks.

Eventually, they reconvene in the house to further discuss their plans. Castiel is confident enough in the recovery of his grace to be comfortable flying Dean, the Impala, and himself all to the approximate location in Virginia that they need to investigate. When he voices this, however, he is unsurprised to find the offer refused.

“It won’t kill us to drive there,” Dean says gruffly, ignoring the objection Sam immediately tries to launch. “I know there’s some high stakes here, I do. But we’ve always driven to hunts, and it’s always worked out just fine. And frankly, man, I need a fucking _break_. I haven’t stopped moving in three days, I’d say a twenty-hour drive is just what I need.”

Sam scoffs. “Dean, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Sammy, if I don’t get a few hours where I’m not riding a stress high, I’m going to be totally useless when we find Azazel. All I want to do is drive to Virginia so I have a few minutes to breathe. I don’t think that’s too ‘ridiculous’ of a request, jackass.”

“What crawled up your ass and died?”

“Sam I swear to god—”

“Holy shit,” Jess mutters under her breath, rubbing at her temples. “Alright, Cas and Dean are driving. Sam, chill out, babe. Cas, can we still hitch a ride to Nevada? Unlike your husband, I’m _not_ up for a road trip, if it can be avoided.”

“I can take you there,” Castiel agrees, ignoring Dean’s immediate, halfhearted grumblings over Jess’ choice of the word _husband_. “Would you prefer to leave tonight, or wait until morning?”

Jess glances briefly at her boyfriend. “We can go tonight, I think. Get out of Bobby’s hair, stay in a hotel. You sure you’re up for it, though? We can call Gabriel, if you aren’t. We wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I can handle it. Do you need time to prepare, or would you like to leave now?”

“Well,” Sam sighs, getting up off the couch, “it’s not like we have anything to pack. We can get stuff in Nevada, I guess. Bobby, keep us updated, yeah?”

“You know I will, boy,” Bobby says, sitting in the chair in front of his desk. “Well, now that we’ve reestablished that, it would be great if you got out of my house. Nice to meet you, Jess.”

Jess grins. “You too, Bobby. Bye, Dean. Be nice to your man.”

Dean rolls his eyes and falls haphazardly into his brother’s vacated place on the couch. “Goodbye, Jess. Thanks for the life advice.”

“Hey, Cas?” Sam says, redrawing the angel’s attention to him. “Think you could drop us in Vegas? We can get supplies there.”

“What!” Dean exclaims suddenly, sitting up a little straighter. “You scheming son of a—!”

Before Dean can finish, Castiel lays a hand on Sam and Jess’ shoulders and pulls them along with him in his flight across the folds of reality. He lands them in the lobby of a hotel just outside of the most heavily populated section of the city and stays only long enough to bid them farewell before returning to Sioux Falls.

When he lands, Dean is still mumbling under his breath about the unfairness of Sam getting to go to Vegas. Bobby seems to be trying very hard to ignore him.

“Dean?” Castiel says, prompting the man in question to immediately fall silent. “Would you like to leave tonight as well?”

Dean sighs heavily while he thinks about it, absently running his tongue along the front of his teeth in an odd gesture Castiel cannot help but watch. After a few moments, he rolls his head to its side to look at Bobby and asks, “You got a room we can have for the night?”

Bobby gives him a sharp, appraising look, even going so far as to take a sip from his glass of whiskey before responding. “Your room is where it’s always been,” he says, “but there will be no funny business under my roof, boy.”

Dean flushes bright red and his mouth opens and closes several times. He eventually makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat and sends Cas a pleading look.

Castiel chuckles at the sight of his flustered mate. Although the phrase ‘funny business’ is not one the angel is familiar with, Dean’s reaction makes it very clear what the older man is referring to. He gives Bobby a warm smile. “I can assure you, Dean and I will not have intercourse while in your home. I believe that would not be appropriate behavior as guests.”

Dean makes another sound of distress. “Oh my _god_ , Cas, _shut up_.”

Beneath his beard, Bobby’s lips twitch with a smile. “You’re damn right it’s not. I would like to not sleep with earplugs in tonight, thank you very much.”

Dean’s hand suddenly closes around Castiel’s, catching him by surprise—he had not noticed his mate had even moved from the couch until they touched. He looks at Dean questioningly, but the man pointedly ignores his gaze in favor of tugging him out of the room.

“We’re going to bed,” Dean says to Bobby, hardly even looking back at the other man as he walks. Castiel can see the tips of his ears are still tinged with red. “Thanks for letting us stay, we’ll bug out in the morning.”

Bobby doesn’t get to reply, as Dean and Castiel leave before he has the chance. They make their way up the staircase and down the hall to a small, moderately-furnished bedroom. There’s a twin-sized bed and a nightstand against one wall and a large, wooden wardrobe positioned on the opposite side of the room. A faded Led Zeppelin poster is pinned above the bed, the only décor on the plain, blue walls save for a single polaroid hanging next to it. The picture depicts a young Dean and Sam posing with a man who can only be John Winchester, in a much neater salvage yard than the one currently surrounding the house.

Dean pushes Castiel ahead of him into the room and firmly closes the door behind them. He eyes the bed with a weary sigh. “So, uh… Guess we’re gonna be a little crammed tonight. Sorry.”

Castiel shrugs. “It’s no matter.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you say that now. Come on, then.” He moves toward the bed and quickly begins to divest himself of clothing, stripping down to only his boxers before pulling back the bedsheets and sliding into them.

Castiel follows his example after only a moment, taking off his own jeans and t-shirt and tossing them aside. Dean indicates for him to take the space next to the wall and he does so without question, easily crawling over his mate’s body to take his place slotted in behind him. The bed truly does have a limited capacity, though, so when Castiel aligns their bodies chest-to-back and drapes a hand over Dean’s torso, he has no alternative to pressing his pelvis against Dean’s ass.

“Remember what Bobby said,” Dean teases, wiggling his hips far more than is necessary as he scoots further into Cas’ hold. “ _No funny business_.”

Castiel rolls his own hips once, sharply enough for Dean to feel his growing erection, and mouths lightly at the expanse of neck so close to his face. He cannot help but smile when Dean gasps, trailing his lips lower to lick at the sensitive mating bite. “I believe his exact statement,” he whispers into his mate’s skin, “was no ‘funny business’ _under his roof_. If I so desired, I could easily take you elsewhere and not violate his terms.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Cas. Don’t tempt me.”

“I won’t,” Castiel replies, shifting to put what little space between their lower bodies he can manage in order to remove the temptation. “I know how tired you are, beloved. Sleep.”

Dean’s body goes lax, more so than it already was, in response to the order. “Yeah, sure,” he says, his voice already growing deeper as sleep begins to claim him. He tentatively takes hold of the hand Castiel has over his body and threads their fingers together.

Cas smiles at the gesture, giving his mate’s hand a firm squeeze. “Sleep well, Dean.”

Dean makes no response, and although Castiel does not mind the silence, he begins to worry when several minutes go by without Dean succumbing to his exhaustion. As time continues to pass, Dean starts to fidget, seemingly uncomfortable in the bed.

“Dean? Is something wrong?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, I—It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Although he knows Dean cannot see him, Castiel rolls his eyes. “Dean,” he says, exasperated. Did Dean really think that would dispel his concern? “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

Dean sighs. “Do you think…” He pauses to clear his throat, his hand clenching and unclenching around Castiel’s. “Do you think you could bring your wings out?”

Castiel grins and presses a kiss to the side of Dean’s neck, releasing his wings from their hidden pocket dimension with a thought. He doesn’t hesitate to curve one of the heavy black appendages over the top of them both, cocooning Dean against him. He had no idea his mate was so attached to his wings, but the fact that he is brings Cas great joy.

The effect is instantaneous, and Dean finally relaxes once more. He uses his free hand to grip a handful of soft feathers, though he does not pull them with enough force to cause the angel discomfort. Dean hums softly in contentment, and as he finally falls asleep, he murmurs, “‘Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

~

Castiel waits patiently through the night, dozing when he can but otherwise spending his time propped up on an elbow, watching Dean sleep. It’s a fascinating thing to observe, really. When he is asleep, Dean’s mind is free from all worries and fears, the weight lifted from his shoulders. His face is smooth save for a few odd twitches, and although his right hand did not stay linked with Castiel’s, the fingers of his left never strayed from the mess of dark feathers they had claimed as their own.

Dean is always beautiful, but in sleep, he is truly stunning.

Unfortunately, Dean wakes fairly early in the morning, cutting short Castiel’s intense study of his features. Dean blinks up at him owlishly, his regular mental functions slow to come back online, and eventually says with a voice thick from sleep, “Dude, did you stare at me like that _all night_?”

Castiel shrugs.

“You know that’s kind of creepy, right?” Dean asks, though his growing smile belies the words. “Come on. There wasn’t _anything_ else you could do? Maybe I should buy you one of those Sudoku books.”

“It’s quite alright, Dean,” Cas replies, idly running a finger down the side of his mate’s face, trailing it down to trace the swell of his lips. “I find joy in admiring you.”

Dean’s cheeks turn pink, and his eyes suddenly leave Castiel’s in favor of searching out the digital alarm clock sitting on the nightstand. When he sees the time—a little after seven—he bolts upright, wide-eyed. “Son of a bitch, I wanted to leave by six!”

Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s thigh to regain his attention. “We can leave whenever you are ready,” he says. “But are you sure you would still prefer to drive?”

“We’re driving,” Dean says firmly. “Are you cool if I go take a quick shower? I can be out in five minutes, I’ll meet you downstairs?”

“Of course. Would you like coffee?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “From here or from another continent?”

Castiel smiles. “Whichever you like.”

“You know, that French coffee we had the other day was pretty good…” Dean muses, his eyes shining with amusement. “Think I could get a repeat order?”

“Of course.” With a twitch of his wings, Castiel flies the few feet to stand on Dean’s other side, dressing himself in a fresh outfit as he goes. The jeans he dons are similar to the last pair he wore. Instead of liberating one of Dean’s shirts to go along with it, though, he takes a white button-up shirt from his own collection and tops it with the trench coat he typically wears while in Heaven.

Dean eyes the coat warily, a single eyebrow rising. “Dude, really? A _trench coat_? What are you, a flasher?”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s… Never mind. Bad joke. Where’d you get that thing anyway?”

“I’ve had it for years. Angels under Michael’s command are expected to dress to certain standards, namely what humans refer to as ‘business’ attire. I often wear a tie, as well.”

Dean looks entirely too amused at that. “Do you really? You’re a full-on nerd angel, aren’t you? Bet you look great in a suit.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Are you going to shower or not? I can be back in a few minutes, I’ll leave as soon as you go.”

“Yeah, I’m going.” Dean is slow to climb out of the bed, stretching luxuriously as he goes. When he finally gets to his feet, he leans in to give Cas a quick, chaste kiss and pats him on the cheek. “Go do your thing, coffee-boy.”

Castiel does not need to be told twice. He arrives in the French café moments later, where he places a real order and waits for it to be filled. It’s a more tedious process than cheating with the powers of an archangel, but he doesn’t mind the wait. When he finally gets the drinks and pastries a few minutes later, he flies it all back to Sioux Falls to deposit on Bobby’s kitchen table.

Bobby, sitting at said table when Castiel appears, looks only mildly surprised by the intrusion. “Huh,” he says, looking at the bounty before him. “If I’d known you were gonna buy breakfast, I would’ve _invited_ you to stay the night. Why’d you get so much, you lookin’ to feed an army?”

Castiel pauses briefly, feeling abruptly self-conscious over the amount of food he purchased. He _had_ gotten an excessive amount, approximately double what Gabriel had given him for Dean the first time. He had done it with the thought of sharing with Bobby—hence a third coffee—but he also has no practical experience in how much food is acceptable. Dean had eaten a fair amount their first morning together, but perhaps that’s a _Dean_ thing?

Apparently his concerns show on his face, because Bobby laughs under his breath. “Quit yer worryin’, boy. As long as you got a coffee for me, I couldn’t care less.”

Castiel’s relief is palpable, and he doesn’t hesitate to hand the third cup of steaming liquid to Bobby. When the man nods his thanks, Castiel picks up one of the other cups and takes it with him out of the room, searching out his mate.

Dean is in the bathroom when Castiel finds him, brushing his teeth at the sink. His hair is still wet from his shower, and a towel is slung low across his hips. He grins around his sudsy toothbrush when he meets Cas’ eye in the mirror, and spits a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink before jokingly saying, “Took you long enough.”

“I apologize, Dean. Was my errand not quick enough for you? Perhaps next time I’ll go to… What was it you said last time? Starbucks?”

Dean laughs, snatching the coffee cup from his hands. “Don’t be a wiseass,” he says. He takes a sip of his beverage and instantly winces, his nose screwing up in disgust. “Oh god, toothpaste and coffee is _so_ not a great combo.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow, but does not otherwise comment. He lets Dean work through his toothpaste-induced disgust in silence, only adding after a few moments, “I brought pastries as well, if you are interested. They are downstairs with Bobby.”

“Sounds great,” Dean responds, seeming genuinely cheered. “I’ll get dressed and meet you down there in a minute.”

Castiel takes a half step out of the bathroom, but he pauses when he notices Dean staring at him strangely. “Are you alright?” he asks.

Dean just smiles oddly and nods his head. “Yeah, I’m good. Go. I’ll be right down, Cas, really.”

He’s up to something, Castiel can easily tell. Dean’s scent is tinted with an amused sort of dishonesty. Castiel narrows his eyes, but when his mate only shrugs in return, he decides to let it go. He pecks a quick kiss to Dean’s temple and flies back to the kitchen, taking a seat in one of the chairs.

Bobby doesn’t look up from his éclair, though he does make a sound of approval. “These are damn good,” he says. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

“France.”

Bobby pauses mid-bite to slowly turn and stare at Castiel, his mouth full of pastry. The look continues for a long moment before Bobby returns to eating, swallowing his bite and immediately taking another. It is only after the éclair is finished that he mutters, “Frickin’ angels.”

Castiel just smiles.

As promised, Dean comes down the stairs only a few minutes later, fully dressed and ready to go. He has his duffel bag in one hand, and he tosses it to the floor next to the table as he takes a seat next to Cas. “Mornin’, fellas!” he says cheerfully, setting his coffee cup on the table and using the freed hand to grab for food.

Bobby looks across the table at him with narrowed eyes. “Why the hell are you so peppy, you idjit? You feelin’ alright?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says with an easy shrug. “In fact, I feel great. Ready to hit the road, hunt some evil sons of bitches.” He shoves most of an éclair in his mouth, making his cheeks bulge.

“Don’t be such a heathen, boy,” Bobby says, rolling his eyes. “I know I taught you better table manners than that.”

Once the pastry is cleared from Dean’s mouth and washed down with a long drag of coffee, he says, “Sorry, old man. Just trying to hurry up so we can let you go back to being a hermit.” He turns and catches Castiel’s eye, blushing when he finds the angel already staring. He raises an eyebrow in an attempt to distract from his embarrassment. “Problem, Cas?”

If this is the game Dean wants to play, well. Two can play it.

“Of course not, Dean,” Cas says, studying the way Dean’s golden soul shines through and highlights his green irises. He does not aim to look any deeper than the surface of Dean’s soul, of course, not actually wanting to see what it is he is hiding just yet, but he knows that the intense focus will unsettle his mate just enough to set the tone. When Dean’s blush darkens and he shifts in his chair, Castiel smiles and changes the subject. “We can leave whenever you like. How far do you plan on driving today?”

Dean blinks and flounders for only a second before latching onto the question. “I don’t know,” he answers, taking another drink of coffee. “We can easily push to Indiana, maybe farther before getting a motel. We could get to the location in Virginia about midday tomorrow, I think.”

“Sounds about right,” Bobby adds. “You two headin’ out soon, then?”

“You kicking us out?”

“Do I need to?”

Dean throws his head back and laughs. “No, you don’t.” He stands from the table and takes one last pastry, grabbing his duffel with his other hand. “Actually, we should probably get going sooner than later. Cas, you good to go?”

Castiel stands, too. “Whenever you’re ready, Dean,” he replies simply. He knows it’s the same statement he has used multiple times already, but it’s the truth.

“Alright then.” Dean moves around the table and claps Bobby on the shoulder. “We’ll go. Keep us posted on any new leads you get, alright? Call me if you or Ash find anything, anything at all.”

“Don’t get yer panties in a twist, boy, I won’t leave you out of the loop. Just take your husband and go already, I got things to do.”

Dean freezes in place and stares at Bobby for a moment too long, a strange expression on his face. He shakes it off when Bobby raises an eyebrow, and loudly clears his throat. “Right. Thanks, Bobby, see you later.”

And then he’s gone, almost running through the front door and out to the Impala, leaving a very confused Bobby and Castiel in his wake.

“What in the Sam Hill…”

Castiel frowns after his mate. Is there something he missed, or is this to do with his game? He turns to Bobby, shrugging at the questioning stare being directed his way. “I will speak with him about it later. Thank you for your help, with everything. I know Dean appreciates it, and I do as well.”

Bobby waves him off. “I said it to the boys, I’ll say it again to you: you don’t need to thank me. They’re family, after all. And if you’re with Dean for the long haul, that makes you family too, Castiel. Even if you ain’t human.”

Castiel’s heart beats a little harder in his chest, and he suddenly has a strange urge to cry. Has anyone ever accepted him so easily? Called him family without a moment’s hesitation? Dean, of course, does not count, and neither does Gabriel. The feelings that hit him are not ones he is familiar with.

He sums all of this up with what he hopes is a very heartfelt “Thank you.”

Bobby smiles like he understands. “Take care of him.”

“Always.”

Outside, Dean honks the horn of the Impala twice in quick succession.

Bobby nods his head toward the door. “Best not to keep him waiting. He’s already cranky, by the looks of it, no need to make things worse.”

Cas bids him a final goodbye and flies out to meet Dean in the car, taking his place in the passenger seat. Dean startles when he appears, though only briefly before starting the engine and beginning their journey. He turns the radio on, too, though not loud enough to prohibit conversation.

It is only after they have been driving for an hour that Castiel says, “You were acting strange at Bobby’s this morning. Why?”

Dean tenses slightly, the change likely imperceptible to the untrained eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answers, not taking his eyes off the road ahead of him.

Castiel watches him for a moment, taking note of just how shifty he is, seemingly straining to keep his eyes away from Cas.

“You should know, Dean, you’re a terrible liar,” he says, now staring out the front window himself. When Dean begins to splutter a denial, Castiel cuts him off with a raised hand. “That being said,” he adds, “I will not press the matter. But be aware that you are not fooling me with whatever it is you think you are hiding.”

After a beat of silence, Dean just says, “Noted.”

When it comes down to it, Castiel knows he will get an explanation eventually. Dean plans to stop and rest at some point around nightfall, so Castiel will undoubtedly have a chance to investigate then.

Until that happens, he can wait.

~

Dean decides to stop for the night in Indianapolis, even though they arrive there fairly early in the evening, around six. When Castiel questions it, Dean cites his reason for stopping as a local diner with particularly good burgers and pie.

And so the lies continue.

Castiel doesn’t object, though, as he truly does not mind stopping early. The drive so far had not been unpleasant, but its monotony had quickly grown tiresome, even with Dean at his side.

They go to the specified diner on their way into the city, where Dean waxes poetic about the meal he receives and moans obscenely around nearly every bite. Castiel eats as well, though only to appease Dean and, when necessary, provide a distraction from his mate’s exaggerated sound effects.

After dinner they go to a motel, choosing one located near the outskirts of the city. The room isn’t a bad one, looking almost alarmingly similar to the room they temporarily inhabited in New Jersey, even down to the fact that it only has one bed.

As soon as they are both in the room, the door shut and locked behind them, Dean tosses his duffel bag to the ground and grabs Castiel by the lapels of his trench coat to haul him in for an admittedly sloppy kiss.

Castiel, although caught off guard by the abruptness of the shift in tone, cannot find within himself a single complaint. It takes him no time at all to get with the program, moving his hands over Dean wherever he can and working to dominate the kiss. Through the movement of lips and tongues, Castiel slowly pushes Dean backward until he is pinned against the wall. It takes no effort to bring his wings out, and he uses those to cage in his mate, too, forming something of a cocoon around them.

“Wait,” Dean says suddenly, breaking the kiss. “Cas, _wait_.”

Castiel growls, low in his chest. “ _What_?”

“I, uh…” Dean clears his throat. “I’ve kind of wanted to do something for a while now. If you’ll let me?”

“What is it?”

Dean puts a hand to the center of his chest and gently pushes him away. “You’ll see,” he says. “Just… sit on the edge of the bed, alright? Please?”

Castiel obliges him, mostly out of curiosity to see what his mate has planned. He sits patiently while Dean stoops over to root through his duffel, eventually pulling out a small, portable speaker and a cassette tape. He sets the speaker on the room’s desk and pops the tape into place, then holds his finger poised over a button on the side.

“Cas, I have one rule for you.”

“And that is?”

“Keep your hands to yourself.” He presses the button on the speaker and a song Castiel recognizes as AC/DC—it was a long car ride, alright?—begins to play.

And that’s when Castiel finally clues in.

With music now setting the tone, Dean turns and saunters toward Castiel, slowly tugging off his flannel shirt and underlying t-shirt as he comes nearer. He removes the articles at an agonizing pace, spending more time teasing the baring of his torso than he does actually _causing_ his torso to be bared, which the angel finds extremely frustrating. The scent of Dean’s arousal already has him extremely on edge, so the tease hardly seems necessary.

But even still, watching Dean trail his fingers over his own abdomen, moving his hands up to unashamedly tease at his nipples, is more than enough to make Castiel’s wings twitch. To have to watch his mate display himself but not touch… The room’s lights flicker with his rising frustration.

Dean pauses for only a moment, casting a glance at the flickering overhead lights before continuing on to the removal of his pants. “You’re going to have to control yourself, Cas,” he says amusedly, now standing close enough for Castiel to feel the warmth radiating from his body. Dean slides his fingers across the top of the waistband, tapping at the metal button before deftly unhooking it and sliding down the zipper. “Think you can do it, angel?”

Then the jeans are lowered to the floor, and Castiel seriously doubts it.

Dean is wearing _panties_. They aren’t as flashy as the ones he had worn the last time he danced for Castiel, but this pair—the material a soft, satiny blue—seem so much more personal than the others, more _sensual_.

And he has been wearing them all day, without Castiel even suspecting.

Castiel’s desire somehow manages to burn even hotter than before, pushing him dangerously close to the signature out-of-control feeling of his rut. His wings, the only part of himself he is not actively restraining, flare open halfway, aching to fully display for his mate.

Now bare save for the panties, Dean moves to straddle Castiel on the bed, holding himself up on his knees to keep from settling on his mate’s lap. The position puts his panty-clad groin almost directly in front of the angel’s face, his hardened dick straining obscenely against the fabric, already wetting the front with drops of precome. Castiel groans, aching to touch, and despite his instructions not to, he is powerless against the urge to lean forward and mouth at the soft skin of Dean’s navel.

Dean lets out a breathless sound at the contact, something between a laugh and a moan, but quickly ends it by pulling Castiel away by his hair. “None of that. I told you the rules, Cas.” He leans down and drags his lips over the shell of the angel’s ear, whispering the words, “ _No touching_.”

_Don’t make an ass of yourself._

Castiel nearly laughs at the thought.

Once Dean is satisfied that his instructions will be obeyed, he begins to move to the beat of the music, lowering himself to grind into Castiel’s lap. The pressure he exerts is carefully controlled, limiting the build of friction to further tease the angel. This goes on for a few agonizingly long minutes, through the end of one song and into the next. Cas’ need to take Dean builds with every second that passes.

Dean is panting with exertion and arousal, sweet-smelling sweat beginning to accumulate on his skin. He drops into Castiel’s lap with a particularly forceful grind of their cocks and whispers, “ _Castiel_ ,” and that is all it takes for the angel’s willpower to snap.

In less than the time between heartbeats, Castiel relocates them both to the center of the bed, pinning Dean beneath his own now-naked body and stretching his wings out as wide as the room allows. He doesn’t give Dean a chance to adjust to the change before he sets to work, pressing himself down against his mate’s body and ravaging his mouth, claiming it as his own.

Dean gasps and writhes, tilting his hips as much as he can to gain additional friction through the panties, the only article of clothing left between them. “Oh god, Cas,” he says into the angel’s mouth, “please, _please_.”

What exactly it is he is begging for, Castiel is not sure. Given the circumstances, though, he feels his odds of guessing are pretty good.

Castiel shifts downward several inches, just enough to hook his fingers in the waistband of Dean’s panties and tug them down, allowing his dick to spring free. He kisses and nips around the bite on his mate’s neck as he loosely teases his fingers across the heated flesh, though he does not give it nearly as much attention as it deserves before trailing his fingers down lower.

Dean cants his hips upward in a clear invitation, spreading his legs wider to accommodate his mate as he settles between them. He moans loudly when Castiel slips the first grace-lubed finger inside him, and immediately rotates his hips in a demand for more.

Castiel chuckles as he works. “So impatient,” he teases.

“You know what?” Dean demands breathlessly, clenching his fists in the sheets on either side of him. “I don’t even care. I wore those— _oh fuck_ —damn panties all day. I want to be fucked. Sue me.”

Now Cas laughs in full, which is probably a strange thing to do while he has two fingers in his mate’s ass, working toward a third, but he couldn’t care less. He leans over Dean to capture his lips in a tender kiss. “I should probably remind you that you made that choice on your own,” he says with a smirk once he returns to his position. He quickly searches out Dean’s prostate with his fingertips and rubs at it lightly. “Even if it was greatly appreciated.”

Dean only moans in response.

With the assistance of Castiel’s grace, it is not long before Dean is fully prepared. When he is, Cas sits back on his heels and Dean, taking the hint, wraps his legs around his mate’s waist, pulling him in closer. “Come on, angel,” he purrs. “You gonna fuck me, or what?”

Castiel pauses, having been completely ready to do exactly that. “Is that a challenge, beloved?”

Dean laughs. “If you want it to be.”

Castiel takes that as a yes.

He aligns the head of his cock with Dean’s entrance, and in one smooth thrust, pushes all the way in. He relishes the way Dean responds, gasping and clenching around his length, but he only lets himself enjoy it for a moment before pulling out and slamming back in, no doubt much sooner than Dean expected him to. He repeats the movement once, twice more, being sure to angle his thrusts just right to hit that perfect spot, before finally settling into a steady rhythm and evening out.

The pace he sets as he fucks into Dean is still a rough one—his rut boils too close to the surface to allow for anything else—but from Dean’s moans and gasps and litanies of praise, Castiel knows he can handle it.

 _It’s his heat_ , a voice in the back of Castiel’s mind whispers. _He’s like a good little omega in heat._

Castiel’s rhythm stutters at the thought. The lights overhead nearly go out as a growl works its way up through his chest, and his pace picks back up.

 _No. No, that’s not Dean. He can’t be that far along. Not yet, not_ yet.

His wings flutter wildly, the last shreds of his control slipping away. He looks down at his mate, writhing and crying out in ecstasy with every move of Castiel’s cock inside him. Completely blissed out. Dean’s neglected cock is leaking an almost steady stream of precome onto his stomach. Cas shifts his position so that he can easily wrap a hand around Dean, jacking him in a rapid rhythm counter to the one of their hips, easing his way with the fluids already there.

Dean comes before either of them expect him to, if the surprised look on his face is anything to go by. He arches up off the bed as his dick spills onto his own skin, and clenches down around Castiel’s cock just as his knot begins to swell and catch on Dean’s rim. The knot locks into place moments later, encouraged by his mate’s release. Then, before he knows it, Castiel is hitting his climax too, flooding Dean’s channel with his seed.

For a single instant, everything seems to stop. Dean and Castiel are caught staring at one another in wonder, and Castiel’s wings have gone still behind him, flared wide in the typical display of dominance. For an instant, everything is perfect.

And then Castiel’s orgasm hits him in full and every light in the room shatters.

Castiel uses his both his wings and his grace to shield he and Dean from the blast, but it doesn’t make much of a difference, as the moment is ruined. Dean even goes so far as to laugh, his eyes glinting with amusement even in the now-dark room.

“Cas, babe,” he chuckles, running his fingers through the angel’s hair, “ _please_ tell me that isn’t going to happen _every goddamn time_.”

Castiel slumps over his mate’s lax body, careful not to pull too hard at the knot tying them together. “I’m not sure,” he confesses. “I had very little control over myself at the end, so it may be possible for me to prevent it if I keep a better handle on myself.”

Dean just hums in reply, too focused on Cas’ body against his. He wraps both of his arms around his mate to pull him in even closer, trailing a hand down to tease across the base of Castiel’s wings, toying idly with the still-swollen glands and the oil-soaked feathers around them.

They stay like that for several long minutes, comfortable in the silence between them. At one point, Dean shifts his hips minutely, as if uncomfortable, and the movement is enough to milk one last spurt of come out of Castiel’s cock.

“It feels so… weird,” Dean says in response.

Castiel props himself up on an elbow to better look at his mate. “What does?”

“Y’know… _this_.” He flexes his hips again. “I feel, like… _wet_. I don’t know, man, it’s just kind of strange, alright? Not that I’m complaining, I guess.”

Castiel doesn’t have a response for that, so he gives none.

After a few seconds, Dean continues with a frown, “I kind of felt like this earlier today, actually. At one point when I had the panties on, I started to get hard—totally your fault, by the way—and it kind of felt like _this_. That’s weird, right?”

Oh _no_.

“Cas?” Dean says, clearly having noticed how tense he has gone. “Cas, what’s up? Is it what I said, does that mean something to you?”

 _You have to do it. Just do it, Castiel, it’s now or never_.

But he needs more _time_ , Gabriel said he had so much more time than this.

“Cas, you’re really starting to freak me out here, babe.”

“Dean, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “What? What’s up?”

Castiel has to steel himself, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

_Just say it. Get it over with._

“You aren’t human anymore.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a long moment, Dean says nothing. Castiel can feel how tense he has gone in every place that their bodies touch—which, given the circumstances, is pretty much everywhere—and his mate’s scent, overwhelmed with positive emotions mere seconds ago, has gone stale as he withdraws into himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com), my amazing beta, for being simply amazing.

For a long moment, Dean says nothing. Castiel can feel how tense he has gone in every place that their bodies touch—which, given the circumstances, is pretty much everywhere—and his mate’s scent, overwhelmed with positive emotions mere seconds ago, has gone stale as he withdraws into himself. Dean’s heartbeat, however, has gone into overdrive. It beats wildly in his chest, the truest indication Castiel has of his inner panic.

After over a minute—seventy-eight seconds, not that Castiel was counting—of agonizing silence, the angel works up the nerve to try again. “Dean—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, his voice flat. Castiel is holding himself up on his arms over Dean, but Dean doesn’t look at him, hasn’t since the admission left his mouth. He keeps his eyes fixed upwards instead, staring blankly at the water-stained ceiling. “Tell me what that means.”

Castiel swallows thickly. What is the best way to explain this without upsetting his mate further? Does such a thing even exist?

It seems unlikely at this point, if he is being honest with himself.

“When we mated,” he begins, “it started a reaction within the very core of your being. You are…. adapting, I suppose the appropriate word is.”

Dean shakes his head. His upper lip twitches as if out of a barely-contained desire to curl up in disgust. “Don’t give me some roundabout, bullshit answer. What do you mean I’m not _human_ , Cas?”

Castiel takes a deep breath before continuing, inhaling through his mouth to avoid scenting the air—scenting _Dean_ , and the cloying _wrongness_ that he exudes—more than is absolutely necessary. “You’re transitioning into a biologically-compatible mate for me. An omega to my alpha. That is why you are changing as you are. Dean… You’re becoming an angel.”

A beat of strained silence.

“Did you know this was going to happen?”

The question brings Castiel up short. He _had_ , hadn’t he? When he first spoke with Gabriel, even before he completed the mating bond with Dean, his brother told him that Dean would develop angelic traits. He said there was a ‘system’ in place.

But Castiel hadn’t thought it would be like this, with so much changing so quickly. He hadn’t thought about how Dean would inevitably react.

Inflicting this upon Dean may as well have been intentional.

Damnit. How could he be so _selfish_?

“Dean, I’m—”

“Answer the damn question, Castiel. Did you know?”

Castiel flinches as if he were struck at the sound of his full name. Who would have guessed that he would have become so dependent on a nickname? And in only a few days, no less.

“I knew,” he says quietly, his eyes downcast.

Now Dean does snarl, a deep, inhuman-sounding growl reverberating from within his chest. Before Castiel can completely process what is happening—which is saying something, considering his angelic perception—Dean twists them on the bed, putting himself above Castiel and straddling his hips, the knot keeping him from moving any farther. Castiel doesn’t fight him on it, knows he couldn’t even if he weren’t paralyzed by surprise and uncertainty. The angel only shifts enough to ensure the pressure the position puts on his wings is not painful.

From his new vantage point, Dean glares down at his mate, pinning him with hands on his shoulders. “You knew,” he repeats, spitting the words. “You fucking _knew_ this would happen to me, and you didn’t think to fucking _tell me_?”

“I didn’t know how!” Castiel snaps in response, his fear over Dean’s response now taking the form of frustration and causing him to lash out. Tendrils of alpha red thread into his irises. “What exactly do you expect me to have said, Dean? And when would I have said it? Gabriel told me—”

“ _Gabriel_? He was in on this bullshit?”

Castiel glares, but otherwise chooses to act as if Dean had not spoken. “Gabriel told me,” he says again, “that the process would take _months_. I expected to have those months, Dean, not the _days_ that I received. I was supposed to have more _time_ , don’t you understand that? Time for myself _and_ time for you.”

Above him, Dean stills. He sits back and crosses his arms, staring down at Castiel with narrowed eyes. “Why the hell is it happening so much faster than Gabe said it would?”

“I don’t _know_ , Dean.”

“Don’t give me sass, angel. Really not the time.”

“Whether you like my attitude or not is irrelevant. What does matter, however, is that I’m sorry. Deeply so. Inflicting this upon you was stupid and selfish. True mates or not, I should have resisted you, left you to a human life—”

Dean silences him with a sharp twist of his hips, tugging on the knot and making the angel groan. “Listen up, asshat,” he spits. “Don’t think for _one_ _second_ that I am not _royally_ pissed off, because I am, like you wouldn’t believe. But that doesn’t mean you get to start _regretting_ this!” He swallows hard, a shred of hurt entering his eyes. For a fraction of a second, they seem to glint gold in the light. “You can’t honestly tell me that after everything we’ve been through in the last few days, you would go back on it all if it meant I didn’t have an extra spring in my step, or whatever the fuck this change is doing to me.”

Castiel stares up at his mate dumbly. It takes far too long for him to find his voice. “Dean, I don’t understand. You’re more upset about my apology than you are about the transition itself?”

Dean scowls at him, and skirts around the question completely by asking, “What kind of angelic traits am I getting out of this deal, dickhead?”

Good. This is good. Castiel can handle questions better than anger and an argument.

“I don’t know the extent of it,” he confesses. “All Gabriel told me was that your changes would be ‘where it counts’.” He forms quotation marks around the words with his fingers. “The feeling you said you experienced when you were… aroused. That is one such trait in development.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “That’s an angel thing? The fuck, man, why?”

“It’s… natural lubrication.”

“Natural… Oh!” Dean’s eyes widen. “Dude, that’s weird. You know that’s weird, right?”

Castiel shrugs as best he can in his current position. “Perhaps to a human, but it is standard for angels. Or rather, standard for some of us. It depends on our secondary gender designation.”

“So… You don’t have that. Right? Because you’re an alpha or whatever. You got a special dick instead.”

Despite himself, Cas’ lips twitch with a smile. “Yes,” he confirms, “I have a special dick instead.”

Dean smacks at his chest. “Shut up, that’s what it is and you know it. What else is happening? Keep talking.”

He runs through the odd occurrences he has noticed in Dean over the past few days, trying to identify which of them were specifically inhuman. Not many stand out, unfortunately, as many of the changes will be internal before external. “I believe you are developing the ability to scent,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “Is that correct?”

“Cas, I don’t know your goddamn terminology.” Dean rolls his eyes. “If you could give me explanations in people terms, that would be great.”

And to think Dean called _Castiel_ out on sass.

“You have a heightened sense of smell,” Castiel clarifies. “You can smell people’s individual scents, mine most of all, as your mate. It’s an ability all angels possess, regardless of secondary gender.”

“So that’s why you smell like… Well. Like you do.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “What do I smell like, Dean?”

Dean hesitantly leans down into Cas’ space, gently dragging the tip of his nose along the column of the angel’s neck as he breathes in his scent. “You smell like…” Dean takes another deep inhale. “Like honey.” He pushes himself up on his arms to meet Castiel’s gaze. “You smell like how honey tastes. But… smokier. Does that make sense?”

Castiel drops his head back onto the pillow, letting that sink in. “Interesting.”

Dean frowns. “Interesting? Why is that interesting?”

“I…” How does he explain? So much of this is new to Dean, it will be tricky to make him understand. “Scenting is something we all do, as I said. But beyond basic scent recognition, actual _scenting_ is typically reserved for sexual or romantic partners. I have had neither, so the last time someone told me what my scent was like was before I even presented as an alpha.”

The memories of that day are crystal clear, as it was something he had tried to hang onto for a long time. He and Balthazar had been scarcely more than fledglings and prepubescent, the both of them. Their scents were undefined, hovering in the beta space between alpha and omega. Unsurprisingly, Balthazar had been the one to bring it up.

“Cassie?” he asked one day after training. “What do I smell like?”

Castiel had been startled, knowing the implications of scenting another angel. He didn’t want that, not yet. His reservations must have shown on his face, though, because Balthazar stepped up his game.

“If you tell me what I smell like, I’ll tell you what you smell like. It won’t mean anything. No one has to know.”

Castiel had narrowed his eyes, but moved closer to his friend nonetheless. “It won’t mean anything?” he repeated. That was his biggest concern.

Balthazar smiled, sensing how near he was to victory. “Promise.”

One awkward scenting exchange later, Castiel told Balthazar that he smelled like a forest on Earth, like the rich aroma of trees.

“And you smell like wildflowers,” Balthazar had responded with a smirk. “An omega for sure, I’ll bet.”

But Castiel was not an omega, and so his scent deepened, became thicker—at least, it did in theory. He had no way to know otherwise. Balthazar, on the other hand, had presented as beta. His scent hardly changed at all, and on some level, Castiel resented him for it.

Castiel gives Dean an overview of this story, just enough to help him understand.

Dean seems to grasp it, and graces his mate with a small smile. It soon fades, though, and he fidgets as he asks, “So… What do _I_ smell like?”

“Leather and cherries.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “You were awfully quick on the draw with that.”

Castiel smiles. “Your scent is uniquely you, Dean. It is not a fabrication of your newfound angelic traits, but something ingrained in your being. I have loved that scent since the moment I met you.”

A blush paints Dean’s cheeks, and he settles back into his former position over Castiel’s hips with his arms crossed, studiously avoiding eye contact. “Alright, so I never need to use lube again and I can smell you. Anything else? And I’m a… what? What’s my ‘designation’?”

“You’re an omega. And anything else that arises I can identify and explain when it becomes apparent.”

Dean huffs. “You’re damn right, you will.”

Castiel waits for a moment, expecting to be further reprimanded by his mate. But when the appropriate time for Dean to continue comes and goes in silence, he feels confused. He knows he probably shouldn’t test his luck by asking, but he does anyway. “Aren’t you going to keep yelling at me?”

Dean gives him a sharp look. “Let’s just say you’re lucky that you’re stuck in my ass right now. It’s making me a tad more generous.”

Acceptance. Unconventional though his wording may be, Dean is accepting what is happening, accepting _Castiel_.

He isn’t going to be rejected. He won’t end the night being abandoned by his true mate.

An enormous wave of relief washes over Castiel, hitting him stronger than he would have expected. He had been prepared for Dean to never forgive him, for Dean to want to break their mating bond and never see Castiel again. He hardly knows what to do with himself now, in the face of such an opposing reaction.

He doesn’t realize he has begun to cry until Dean whines, low in his throat. He slumps over Castiel’s body, burying his face in his mate’s neck.

“Damnit, Cas,” he whispers into the angel’s skin. “Don’t fucking _cry_. I don’t handle tears very well.”

Cas brings his arms and wings up around his mate to hug Dean to him, drawing him in with his feathers. The strands of Dean’s hair tickle his face, but he couldn’t be less bothered by it. He relishes Dean’s very presence, and is more than happy to surround himself with his scent.

When he finally gets a grip on his emotions, Castiel clears his throat, suddenly feeling awkward. “I apologize, Dean. I didn’t mean to become so emotional. I am not typically like this.”

Dean snorts softly, but doesn’t change his position. “Are you really trying to tell me you _aren’t_ a total sap? Because I don’t buy that for a second.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny the statement. He tentatively says one last time, “I _am_ sorry about this, Dean. You have to know that.”

Dean sighs and rubs his face against Cas’ collarbone. “I know you are,” he replies. Castiel can feel the bob of his throat when he swallows before continuing, his voice barely more than a whisper, “You get why this scares the shit out of me, right?”

He doesn’t. He sets about rubbing one of his hands back and forth over the plain of Dean’s back, hoping to keep him calm and willing to talk.

“I just…” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. This all happened so fucking _fast_. We hardly even know each other, if you think about it. I hardly know _you_. You’re just some guy that showed up at my job one day out of the blue, gave me the best lay of my life, and then the _rest of this_ all happened. You say we’re soulmates, then you say I’m not human… For reference on the timeline here, you should probably know that the last person I was—um, _romantically involved_ with—I was with for about a month before I was even able to acknowledge I had feelings for them. And even that was pretty fast.”

Castiel’s hand falters only briefly in its rhythmic path across his mate’s back. Logically, he knows that his own relationship with Dean is fundamentally different than any of the man’s previous relationships. The true mate bond brought them together quickly and with undeniable force, factors that standard human relationships could never achieve with the same potency. Having a comparative timeline puts things into a new perspective for him, though.

Dean considers a month-long relationship ‘fast’. Keeping that in mind, his concern over his relationship with Castiel is especially understandable.

Not that that lessens the slight pain in the angel’s heart at all.

Castiel has one prominent question. He knows he probably shouldn’t ask it, but he does anyway. “What was their name?”

“Cassie,” Dean whispers. “Her name was Cassie. Odd coincidence, I know. Maybe I just have a type.”

Castiel huffs a soft laugh. “I don’t think names alone form the basis for a ‘type’, Dean. Although I will admit, it is, as you said, an odd coincidence.” He hesitates for a moment. “Can I ask what happened between you?”

Against him, Dean shrugs. “I was on a hunt,” he says, the words muffled by their proximity to the angel’s skin. “She wasn’t involved, but she was nearby. We spent time together, and in the end, I really cared for her. Not sure I’d call it love, but she still meant a lot to me.”

“Why did it end?”

Dean snorts. “Cas, are you really trying to figure out why I broke up with the only other person I ever really cared about? This kind of talk should send you into jealous-boyfriend mode, not turn you into a couple’s therapist or something.”

“Dean, were you or were you not just complaining that we don’t know much about one another?” Castiel challenges calmly. “I’m merely curious, not trying to convince you to reunite with her.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Dean relents. “It ended because I made the mistake of telling her what I do.”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “You told her that you work as a stripper?”

Dean barks a laugh. “No, you doof. We’ve been over this, I don’t tell _anyone_ about that. I told her about the hunting.”

“Oh. I assume she did not take it well?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t meant to be anyway, right? Not if you’re my soulmate. True mate. Whatever.”

“Yes, that is true.”

They wait in silence—far more comfortable than the previous bouts—for several minutes, during which Castiel’s knot finally deflates enough for Dean to slip free of it. He slides off with a groan. He stretches his body as best he can without leaving the bed, then flops back down atop Castiel.

“Just so you know,” he says on a yawn, snuggling into Cas’ hold, “I’m still pissed off. I’m just too tired to be mad at you right now.”

Castiel barely refrains from smiling. “I understand,” he says solemnly.

Dean nods. “Good. Starting tomorrow, you’re in the doghouse.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’m pissed and you have to work your ass off to make it up to me. You can start with coffee in the morning. Something extra special.”

Castiel presses a chaste kiss to the crown of his mate’s head, and returns to rubbing his back. “Of course, Dean. Is there anything else you would like to request?”

Dean hums, the sound falling somewhere between contemplation and content exhaustion. “Breakfast would be nice,” he slurs. “I could go for waffles or something. And I want shower sex.”

Castiel chuckles. “As you wish.”

Dean yawns again. “And I want a car wash.”

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, asshole. I’m kind of mad, remember?”

“Right. Will you _please_ go to sleep?”

“Ugh. _Fine_ , I’ll sleep.” Another yawn. “Happy now, you dick?”

“Incredibly so.”

“Oh, and Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell Sam. About the changes.”

“Of course not.”

“Thanks.”

It takes only seconds for Dean to drop off completely after that. Castiel knows from experience that his mate is content to be in his arms and wings, so it is not much of a surprise to him.

It is, however, a huge relief for the angel to know that that habit still holds true, even after what they just went through. Dean had initially been so angry, so _disgusted_ , that Castiel had doubted their relationship would continue smoothly at all, let alone so quickly. He had worried he would never get to hold Dean like this again.

Castiel cannot help but send a sincere thank you to his Father, wherever he may be, for allowing him to be so fortunate. He is thankful for the day having ended as it has, and for having been given such a perfect mate to begin with.

Having to work a little harder to please Dean is hardly a tough price to pay at all for his mistakes. And, given the tasks Dean has so far asked of him, Castiel doesn’t think being in the ‘doghouse’ will be so bad. He looks forward to the chance to make things up to his mate, and is almost excited to help Dean adjust to his sojourn into angelhood.

Castiel is content to settle in and wait out the night with Dean in his arms. Tomorrow will be a good day.

He just hopes that things continue to work out for the better when they reach Virginia.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mere moments after the alarm had been triggered, however it cuts off again, leaving a weighted silence in its wake.
> 
> Castiel slowly sits up as well, casting out his senses and searching for anything out of the ordinary in the vicinity of the motel. There seems to be nothing of interest, though—no creatures with ill intent, no panic from other motel occupants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, guys. Chapter 10. 50k words. Honestly, I never thought I'd get this far. So for everyone reading this: Thanks. I do this because I love you.
> 
> In honor of this landmark chapter, I've added a new fic summary. It includes a *super-vague* hint at what's coming, so go check it out!
> 
> And of course, a special thanks to [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com), the best beta to ever beta.
> 
> Enjoy. <3

The motel’s fire alarm goes off at three in the morning. It catches even Castiel by surprise, due to his semi-unconscious state.

Dean jerks awake instantly, pushing himself into a sitting position and hovering over Castiel. He blinks wearily for a moment, cocking his head as he listens for any sounds beneath the alarm.

Mere moments after the alarm had been triggered, however it cuts off again, leaving a weighted silence in its wake.

Castiel slowly sits up as well, casting out his senses and searching for anything out of the ordinary in the vicinity of the motel. There seems to be nothing of interest, though—no creatures with ill intent, no panic from other motel occupants.

But—Oh. There is not a lack of panic from other occupants, but rather a lack of other occupants in general. The entire building is vacant, except for himself and Dean.

From somewhere outside the room, they hear the sound of breaking glass.

“Dean,” Castiel hisses, not taking his eyes off of their door, “get dressed. Now.”

Dean scrambles to comply, though he takes care not to cause excessive noise. He reaches his bag in silence, and it takes only seconds for him to pull on boxers, jeans, and a t-shirt. He grabs a handgun, too, and holds it at the ready as he creeps toward the door.

Castiel flies to stand by the door as well, instinctively positioning himself between Dean and the yet-unknown threat. He takes advantage of the trip by dressing himself—defaulting in his distracted state to the work attire he wore while under Michael’s authority—tucking his wings into subspace as he goes.

“Cas!” Dean whispers, clutching his gun tightly. “What the fuck is happening?”

Castiel shakes his head and holds a finger to his lips. Dean needs to know what is happening, yes, but that can wait until _Castiel_ knows what is happening. He listens carefully for any sounds from outside in the parking lot, part of him praying that this is all a misunderstanding of some sort.

Unfortunately, the reek of sulfur is unmistakable.                   

While he can scent the demons’ presence, though, every detail beyond that is shrouded. There is no way to determine how many there are, nor what degree of power they possess.

On the other side of the door, there is a sharp click.

Castiel’s eyes widen. He has only seconds to lunge forward and tackle his mate to the floor before an explosion rocks the ground and the motel around them, blasting away the room’s front, exterior wall. Charred debris rains down over them, pelting across their huddled forms and forcing Castiel to redraw his wings to form a barrier over Dean, who was stunned by both the fall and the explosion.

“Well, well,” a woman says from the hole where the door used to be, “you two are just _adorable_ aren’t you?”

Castiel gets to his feet in an instant, putting himself in a low, protective crouch over Dean. He pulls his blade into existence, letting it fall easily into the palm of his hand, seemingly from up the sleeve of his trench coat. A growl resonates in his chest and his irises shift toward red, all of his rage focused on the small, blonde demon that dared to threaten him and his mate.

The demon smirks. “Come on, little angel,” she says in a sing-song voice. “You know full well I don’t care about your silly alpha posturing.” She cranes her neck in an effort to see around Castiel to Dean, though the shield of wings makes it difficult. “What’s that you got back there, eh? Maybe a nice piece of omega ass to keep your bed warm? But—” She frowns. “No, that can’t be right.”

Castiel takes a half step toward the demon, flaring his wings a fraction wider and redrawing her attention. “Why are you here?” he demands, not deigning to acknowledge her other statements.

She chuckles darkly, and puts her hands in the pockets of her red leather jacket in a show of disinterest. “I know you’re tickled you finally got your wings there, Clarence, but calm your tits and stow ‘em. They’re not gonna help you now.”

Behind Castiel, Dean makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and utter disbelief. “The fuck kind of demon watches Christmas movies?” he mutters, obviously not intending to be heard.

The demon shrugs. “Spend enough time in Hell, you get bored. But that’s not why I’m here.”

Dean pushes one of Cas’ wings down enough for him to see the demon, but not out of the way completely. “And why _are_ you here?” he asks. “Who are you? What the fuck do you want?”

“ _Language_ ,” the demon admonishes. “You kiss your momma with that mouth?”

Dean stiffens. Castiel hears him release the safety on his handgun. “I’ll ask you one more time, bitch. Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck do you want?”

She rolls her eyes and tugs lightly on the pockets of her coat. “You can call me Meg,” she says with sickeningly false sweetness. “That’s what this meat-suit was called, anyway. But you know what? I think I’ll keep it, just like I’m keeping her.”

Castiel has to bite his tongue to keep from giving an exorcism on the spot. He hates demons and their savage, vessel-taking ways, but this demon in particular came to them for a reason. They need to hear what she has to say before sending her hurtling back to Hell, no matter how badly he itches to do it right this instant.

When she fails to get her intended rise out of either Dean or Castiel, Meg sighs. “Buzzkills. Fine. I’m here because there’s news on Hell’s grapevines that you’re after Azazel. True or false?”

“I fail to see how that is any of your concern,” Castiel replies, narrowing his eyes. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Clarence!” Meg grins and takes a bold step forward. “You see, Azazel and me? We’re what sentimental fools like you call _family_. So, naturally, if you’re after Azazel, I have to stop you.”

Dean’s breath audibly catches. “Demons don’t have families,” he retorts, confused by the notion. “I mean… right?”

Oh, but they do. And familial-strength bonds between demons are something to be afraid of. Dean, of course, wouldn’t know that, but Castiel has been around for long enough to see more than his share of demonic ‘families’.

A light breeze wafts into the room, carrying enough identifying scents for Castiel to know more demons lurk just out of sight—and that is when he realizes the full extent of the mistake he has made.

Meg was just a distraction.

Heart beating with the onset of adrenaline, Castiel carefully extends a tendril of his grace toward Dean, just enough to make contact with his soul and establish a connection.

 ** _We need to go. Now,_** he says, not taking his eyes off of Meg’s smirking face. **_Get ready._**

He only receives a pulse of affirmation from Dean in reply before he severs the connection, already set on preparing himself for their escape. Within the span of seconds, he needs to grab both Dean and the Impala, and put several states between them and Meg and her cohorts.

He just needs to wait for the perfect opportunity.

“So, boys,” Meg carries on, oblivious, “are you gunning for my father or not? Let me just remind you, honesty’s always the best policy.”

“Who’s Azazel?” Dean asks, feigning ignorance. It’s perfect—exactly what they need to keep Meg talking for a bit longer.

If Castiel were not otherwise occupied, he would kiss the man.

Meg snorts a laugh. “Oh come on, Dean. You can’t play dumb with me! You’re forgetting the fact that I already _know_ you’re after him. Asking is a… formality. One last chance to redeem yourself, if you will.”

Maybe not such a perfect distraction, then, but Dean improvises and asks instead, “How do you know my name?”

“Dean, Dean, Dean.” Meg shakes her head, clucking her tongue. “It’s so _cute_ that you even need to ask that! The Winchester’s have made quite a name for themselves in a lot of different circles, you know. All the scary little monsters know your name, Dean-o.”

Castiel can't help but dislike the way that sounds.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because just then, there is an audible scuffle from the parking lot.

Meg sighs and pinches her eyes closed. She turns her head just enough to shout over her shoulder to the unseen demons, “If you could not be _completely_ incompetent, that would be great.”

Castiel takes full advantage of the brief distraction, whirling to wrap a hand around Dean’s bicep and taking them both away in a flap of wings. He hears a shout from Meg and a snarl from another, unseen demon, but pays them no mind as he flies himself and Dean to Virginia.

When they land, Cas has to lean heavily against the Impala for a moment and regain his breath. He is only vaguely aware of Dean’s hands on his face, of Dean’s worried voice demanding to know what is wrong.

And then everything goes black.

~

Castiel wakes with a gasp, automatically bolting up to a sitting position. The movement sends a sharp pain stabbing through his ribcage, but he hardly notices it next to the more prominent burn emanating through the center of his chest. He looks around wildly, searching for some sort of explanation, and finds Gabriel glaring at him with crossed arms.

“Gabriel—” He winces when the word scrapes its way out of his throat, the accompanying movement of his lungs setting an ache across his chest. He swallows hard and tries again. “What—?”

Gabriel reaches out and flicks him on the forehead. “Castiel, you’re my brother and I love you to bits, but sometimes, you’re a real dumbshit.”

Castiel frowns. He presses a hand to the center of his chest in a silent question, not ready to give speaking another attempt just yet.

Suddenly Dean walks into Castiel’s line of sight, clearly having been behind the angel. He, too, looks rather irritated with Castiel, but his scent is blooming with worry and distress. “You got stabbed, man,” he says with forced gruffness. “One of those demonic sons of bitches hurled a dagger at you just as we were leaving.”

Castiel slides his hand down to the spot of pain on his lower chest. The tissue is sensitive, obviously having suffered great damage, but he cannot tell exactly what happened. A dagger should not have been able to truly harm him, not permanently.

As if following his train of thought, Gabriel says, “The dagger was cursed, powerful enough to harm even a seraph. Dark stuff. It was working to kill you from the inside out—shutting down your major organs, trying to sever your spinal cord, that sort of thing. Sure, it takes a lot to kill an angel, but that would have brought you damn close.”

“What—” Castiel coughs violently, clutching at his chest all the while. He looks to his brother and mate with wet eyes, tapping his index finger against his sternum.

“Your heart stopped and one of your lungs was punctured and collapsed,” Gabe says bitterly. Beside him, Dean closes his eyes tightly. “I tried to remove the curse from your body, but it fought back against my initial attempts. Dug itself in deeper. I got you going again, as you can see. You’re welcome.”

Castiel sighs. His chest burns. Whatever methods Gabriel used were not pleasant.

“Well.” Gabriel claps his hands together, looking between Cas and Dean. “Now that you kiddies are both alive and well, I better get going. I was in a meeting with Zachariah when Dean-o prayed to me. Slimy bastard’s been giving me the runaround for hours now.”

Castiel winces, and nods slowly. He knows how Zachariah works, all too well.

“Don’t know how you dealt with that dickbag for so long,” Gabe laments, staring up at the ceiling as if he can see the angel in question directly through it. He rolls his head to the side to look at Castiel. “You should have moved to my command millennia ago, bucko. Should’ve at least put in a _request_.”

Castiel shrugs. He has always been a diligent worker, and so dealing with Zachariah was annoying, yes, but also little more than an inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.

Gabriel sighs. “Alright, I have to go. Make good choices, will you, boys?” He gives Castiel one last, pointed look before disappearing, only the sound of his wings marking his exit.

Once they are alone, Dean exhales heavily. He approaches Castiel where he sits on an elevated, metal table, and moves to stand between his legs where they dangle over the side. He touches their foreheads together lightly and whispers, “I could feel you dying, Cas.”

The thought makes Castiel’s heart ache. Mating bonds are intended to create a link between two beings more powerful than any other, binding their life forces together in every way imaginable. The death of one of the bond mates would be incredibly painful for the remaining one, and may very possibly prove fatal through loss of a will to live.

Castiel had seen an angel go through it once, several hundred millennia ago. The surviving angel had been a member of Raphael’s division, while the one who perished had served under Michael, in Castiel’s garrison. There had been a skirmish with some demons, and she had been the sole angelic casualty. Her mate had grieved at first, raged, even—and then it stopped. She was left hollow, with nothing but sorrow to tide her over. She killed herself with her own blade to end her pain, unable to fathom living without her other half.

He cannot imagine leaving Dean to suffer through that same despair.

Cas lifts his arms and loops them around his mate’s neck, hoping to reassure Dean of his continued presence. “Sorry.”

Dean chuckles, though it sounds slightly delirious. “You don’t have to _apologize_ , man. You got _stabbed_ —while saving both our asses, no less. I’m just glad you’re alright. Scared the shit out of me.”

“Regardless.” Cas coughs again, though this one is significantly less intense. “I am sorry you had to go through that.” He pulls his face away from Dean’s to take a look around them, something he neglected to do when he first woke. His brow furrows. “Are we… in a warehouse?”

Dean takes a full step back and glances around the empty, cavernous room. “Uh… Yeah. It was the closest building to where you landed us, so when you passed out, I dragged you in.” He gestures to the metal table below Castiel. “The operating table or whatever was Gabriel’s addition.”

“I see. How long was I unconscious?”

Dean shrugs. “Not too long, all things considered. Only about an hour and a half.”

Castiel nods in understanding. He’s had worse. His recovery time should not be too drastic, either.

“Hey, um… Cas?”

Castiel looks up at Dean. He hadn’t noticed that he’d begun to drift off into his thoughts.

Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking nervous and somewhat haunted. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Dean.”

“What… What happens to angels when they die?”

Apparently, Castiel’s near-death had scared Dean quite a bit.

Castiel sighs, staring blankly at the grimy, concrete floor of the warehouse. “I… don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Dean repeats flatly. “How could you not know?”

“Human souls go to Heaven,” he says, “but angels already reside in Heaven, and so going there after we die would not be logical. Although, if an angel were to become human, they would likely go to Heaven upon passing as a human does. An angel, though… If we have any form of afterlife, it is our Father’s secret.” He pauses. “Gabriel is of the belief that we go to Purgatory after death. I find that unlikely.”

Dean is silent for a moment as he takes this in, and eventually shakes his head. “Fuck. You were _really_ close just now, do you know that?” He comes back to stand next to Castiel and takes the angel’s face in his hands. “Can you do me a favor? Please?”

Castiel nods absently. “Anything.”

“ _Don’t die_ ,” he says vehemently. “And you know what? While I’m at it, don’t _almost die_ , either. For fuck’s sake, man, it’s like you’re _trying_ to give me grey hair.”

It’s an impossible promise to make, and Castiel knows that Dean is aware of this. How could any such promise be made in the face of the threat Azazel poses? And yet, in spite of this, Cas finds himself replying, “I promise.”

Dean relaxes slightly. “Thank you.”

And then they are kissing, Dean ravaging Castiel’s mouth with his own, and Castiel is floundering to switch gears, trying to catch up. He manages it, of course, and they quickly lose themselves in the motions, their bodies pressing together tightly when Cas uses his legs around Dean’s waist to pull him in.

At the point where Dean reaches for Castiel’s belt, though, Castiel has a startling moment of clarity. He pulls away from his mate with a gasp, and stops Dean from following with a firm hand to his chest. He coughs and says, “Dean, I’m sorry, but this isn’t the time for that.”

“You say that way too often,” Dean whines, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “But why the hell not? In case you forgot, I was promised shower sex this morning. And I didn’t even get a shower! I think the _sex_ part is the least we could do.”

“ _Dean_.” Castiel coughs again. It seems a heavy make-out session isn’t the best idea while recovering from a collapsed lung and recently-restarted heart. “Dean, we don’t have much time to investigate Ash’s lead before Meg finds us again, and you know that. And as much as I want to make love to you—” Another cough. “—I believe I should at least be able to breathe properly when that happens. Don’t you agree?”

Dean flushes slightly at the phrase ‘make love’, but is calmed tremendously by the rest of what Cas said. He nods reluctantly, glancing down. “Yeah, you’re right, as always. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” He places his palm against his mate’s chest, directly over his heart. “How are you? Do you feel alright?”

“I feel fine,” Castiel confirms with a smile. “And to be clear, I am not in any way upset with you for craving sex. You feared I was dying—it is understandable to desire physical reassurance.”

“Always so damn logical,” Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. Castiel sees the shift in his expression when another thought occurs to him, his lips twitching downward. “Is this a… Wait. Is this an angel thing? An omega thing?”

Castiel nods slowly. “I believe in part, yes. The elevated desire for sexual intercourse, that is.”

“How so?”

“Omegas go into heat,” Cas explains. “I think we may have already discussed this to some degree? No matter. Heat—or rut, as is the alpha equivalent—is a period of time in which you will have a near insatiable sex drive. When true mates meet, their heats or ruts are triggered. Neither of us have fully experienced that yet, but—”

“But it’ll happen faster the more I turn into an angel,” Dean finishes. He laughs under his breath. “Great. Of fucking course. _That’s_ what we need in the middle of all this other shit.”

Castiel cannot help but chuckle. “We’ll deal with that when we get to it. Hopefully we have some time before it hits.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because that’s worked out _so_ well so far.”

“Logically, our luck should take a turn for the better at some point.”

“I won’t hold my breath.” Dean steps back away from Castiel, and pulls out his phone to check the time. “It’s just after five o’clock,” he says, watching the angel carefully. “You good to drive up to the mountains? Otherwise we can bunker down in a motel room for a bit—”

Castiel shakes his head. “No. I’m fine. We need to do this before the demons catch up. And they will. The sooner we get there, the better.”

“I agree. You good to go, then? I was thinking we could drive most of the way up, stash the Impala, and hike out the remaining distance to Ash’s coordinates.”

“That sounds acceptable.” Castiel slides off the metal table, staggering only slightly once his legs are under him. Dean steps in as if to help him, but Cas waves him off. “I’m fine. Is the Impala nearby?”

Dean stares at him for a long minute, clearly trying to analyze his definition of ‘fine’. Eventually, Dean nods and leads him outside.

~

The drive to the mountain is a slow one, and made mostly in silence. The radio is kept to a low volume, as if Dean is purposefully not preventing a conversation from taking place. Several times, he opens his mouth as if to start the conversation he seems to desire, but each time, he changes his mind and snaps his jaw shut again.

By the time they reach the base of the mountain, Castiel has counted eight almost-conversations. If anything is going to be discussed, he will obviously have to be the one to broach the subject.

“Something on your mind, Dean?”

Dean sighs and casts Cas a long look. When his eyes are fixed back on the road, he says, “Meg said Azazel’s her father.”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean? Demons don’t have families. That isn’t how they work.”

“They are not family in the strictest sense,” Castiel says. He watches the forest as it rolls past the passenger window as he speaks. “Demons have powerful senses of… _loyalty_ , I suppose you could say. It stems from their time spent together in Hell. They torture human souls, they torture other demons, they torture each other. It’s a rather complex web of sadism and masochism.”

“That’s fucked up,” Dean says, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “So how does that connect to calling each other family? Azazel isn’t actually Meg’s dad. Unless it’s a kinky thing?”

Castiel turns to face him, frowning. “Is that a… kink? To call someone a familial relation? I don’t understand.”

Dean laughs. “You know what? I’m not even gonna get into that one. Just… no. Please, carry on.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, but does as Dean asks and continues with his explanation. “If this demon—Meg, or whatever her true name may be—claims Azazel is her father, that means she was likely close with him in Hell, perhaps even served under him. But what is key, Dean, is that demons do not form familial bonds lightly. They are selective. If Meg and Azazel are family, she is a threat that is not to be underestimated.”

“Awesome,” Dean mutters. “That’s just super. Because one scary-ass, high-powered demon wasn’t enough. No, we just _had_ to add in his fucking _family_.”

The Impala takes a sharp, sudden turn onto a narrow dirt road, only barely cleared of brush enough to allow them to drive without issue. A few errant branches scrape along the vehicle’s exterior—Dean winces with every one—but aside from that, they easily make it to the end of the road, where it connects to a small meadow. Dean pulls around it and positions the car to be facing the way they came down the road before cutting the engine.

Castiel follows Dean out of the car and around to the trunk, where he watches in silence as his mate arms himself with weapons from the hidden arsenal. A shotgun loaded with salt rounds, flasks of holy water—standard equipment for a hunter pursuing a demon. It isn’t enough to do more than irritate a demon, though, and Castiel doesn’t like it.

“Dean.” He waits for the man to meet his eyes before reaching into his coat and pulling out his blade. “I want you to take this. It is one of the most powerful weapons in existence, capable of killing both angels and demons.”

Dean stares at the proffered blade, wide-eyed. He warily meets Cas’ gaze. “Cas, you can’t give me this. I… I don’t need it, man. It’s alright.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Please, Dean. Take it. I need to know you can defend yourself if something goes wrong.”

“It can kill angels, Cas,” Dean says. “Don’t give it to me. I could lose it, or—”

“I trust you, Dean. I trust you not to misuse it. I will take it back as soon as we are finished here, but until then, _take it_. I beg of you.”

Behind his eyes, Dean’s soul twists and wars with itself. Part of him knows Cas is right about the weapon being important to have if they encounter demons, while another part is convinced that Castiel needs the weapon himself to survive. Another part still is convinced that he isn’t worthy of using the weapon at all.

Castiel takes Dean’s hand in his own and manually wraps his fingers around the hilt of the blade. “You will be safer this way,” he insists. “I can smite a demon with my bare hands, Dean. This weapon is merely a tool, an external manifestation of my own grace. As my mate, you are more than worthy of it.”

Dean still looks unconvinced, but he nods and stows the blade in his own jacket pocket. He turns away just long enough to pull a GPS unit from one of the compartments in the arsenal and close the trunk. He hits a few buttons on the device, then starts the walk into the woods.

Castiel follows close behind, trying to ignore the steadily-growing pit in his stomach.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A large, circular sigil, at least ten yards across, has been burned into the grass of the clearing. Castiel drifts around its perimeter as he studies it, trying to make out what he can of the intricate lines and interwoven words. He has never seen such a sigil before, but even at first glance he knows it can mean nothing good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! Just so everyone is aware, I am planning on going through and updating several early chapters of this fic to fix typos, update format, etc. on Thursday of this week. I figured I should give everyone a heads up, because frankly, I have no idea if AO3 will send out alerts to subscribers when I republish. Guess we'll find out, huh?
> 
> And thanks to [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com), my amazing beta, for being simply amazing.

Dean watches his GPS unit closely, staring intently at its blinking screen. More than once, his lack of attention to his surroundings results in him losing his footing, and then it is only Castiel’s quick reflexes that keep him upright. Each time, Dean’s cheeks darken and he mutters a quick, “Thanks.”

It’s cold up in the mountains, the chill only made worse by the elevation and relatively early hour of the day. Each breath they take dissipates from a visible fog, and a thin layer of frost coats the forest floor. Some of the trees even have small icicles hanging from their branches.

The cold makes Castiel’s chest ache. A deep cough escapes him, but he manages to fight off the threat of another. Dean gives him a concerned look, but he waves it off.

They walk for nearly half an hour before Dean comes to a sudden stop and puts the GPS in his pocket. “Ash’s coordinates are about fifty yards ahead of us,” he says, nodding his head in that direction. “I don’t know what we’ll find. You ready for this?”

Castiel nods and steps around his mate to take point. Dean, thankfully, doesn’t object, and they continue on their way, careful not to make excessive noise. After forty or so yards, the trees give way to a patch of cleared land, giving them a clear view of their destination.

Dean inhales sharply at the sight before them. “What the actual fuck.”

A large, circular sigil, at least ten yards across, has been burned into the grass of the clearing. Castiel drifts around its perimeter as he studies it, trying to make out what he can of the intricate lines and interwoven words. He has never seen such a sigil before, but even at first glance he knows it can mean nothing good.

“This is Enochian,” he tells Dean, pointing to the lettering nearest to him. He is careful not to allow even his extended arm to cross the sigil’s boundaries. “The rest of it is unfamiliar to me, but based on known patterns, it is most likely demonic in origin.”

Dean comes to stand next to Cas, frowning down at the scorched lines. “Enochian is the language of the angels, right?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“So… what? This’s got angel-mojo _and_ demon-mojo? What does that mean?”

Castiel sighs. It can mean any number of things—are the demons learning Enochian spell work? Or do they have a contact, a fallen angel, perhaps? Regardless, it means nothing good, and he tells Dean as much.

“Great,” Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can’t you read it, at least? What does it say?”

“It’s difficult to make out,” Castiel confesses, squinting at the poorly-formed letters. “Whatever method was used to burn these marks into the earth was sloppy—although still neat enough for the magic to flow through. But, if I’m understanding these phrases correctly, their purpose is to… _amplify_ , I suppose you could say. I suspect that a spell or ritual performed within these bounds would have an increased power. That would explain why Ash detected omens in this area, considering this would be their origin.”

Dean holds up a hand, looking incredulous. “Hold up. You _suspect_? It’s your own language, man! Isn’t the translation something you should be _certain of_?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Enochian to English can never be exact. And additionally, these are only fragments of complete sentences, and each expresses a slightly different idea.” He points a line of characters near the center of the sigil. “See that one there? That one is the hub of the spell, as you can see from the way the other segments spiral out from it. But in essence, what that one says is _give power_. The word used for _power_ , however, could have multiple other meanings in English, each of which would depend on context typically provided by other nearby words—” He glances up and meets Dean’s eyes, and the expression he sees on his mate’s face prompts him to fall silent. He has to fight the urge to fidget when he asks, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

If anything, the warm, affectionate look in Dean’s eyes only increases in strength, along with his smile. “I like when you get all _nerdy_. It’s cute.”

Castiel bites his lip to keep from smiling and forces his gaze back to the sigil on the ground. He is fairly sure he is blushing as well, but for now, he is perfectly content to write off the heat in his face as a result of the cold. Angels don’t blush.

Dean chuckles. Thankfully, though, he lets it drop. “So there must be demons around here, yeah?” he asks. “Where are they?”

At that exact moment—and Castiel has to forcefully remind himself not to consider it a sign from his Father, because he hasn’t believed in such things for a long time now—a frigid breeze comes in from the north-east, carrying with it the unmistakable odor of sulfur. It’s convenient, perhaps overly so, but Castiel doesn’t question it.

Dean nods when he tells him, but doesn’t move right away. Instead, he pulls his cell phone from his pocket and raises it to take a few pictures of the burns on the ground. “For reference,” he explains without prompt. “Sam and Bobby will want to see. Gabe, too, I’m sure.”

It’s true, Castiel knows, and he is glad Dean thought of it. He allows Dean the time he needs before they start walking again, venturing back into the trees. They aren’t in the trees for long, though, before they reach another cleared area, this one up against the bare face of a cliff.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters from Castiel’s left as they pause at the tree line, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together for warmth. “Why does it have to be a _cave_? Seriously, is this Scooby Doo or something?”

Castiel elbows Dean sharply in the side to silence him and they both drop to the ground, taking cover in the brush at their feet just as a pair of demons walk out of the mouth of the cave.

“This is bullshit,” the shorter of the two—the body he’s possessing a stout, Hispanic man—loudly says to his companion. “And Christ, is it cold or what? How cold do you think it is? Below freezing, right?”

The other demon, possessing a reasonably tall Japanese man, rolls his eyes. “Well there’s ice, so yeah,” he says flatly. “Freezing.”

They slowly make their way further from the mouth of the cave, strolling along the face of the mountain and toward the nearest copse of trees.

Right toward Dean and Castiel.

“Patrolling in the ice,” the first demon snorts, oblivious to his partner’s complete disinterest. “Give me a fucking break. You know who _doesn’t_ have to patrol in the ice?”

The second demon sighs. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“ _Tom_ ,” the demon spits. “That asshole gets to do whatever he wants. And why? Because he’s Daddy’s good little boy? _Bullshit_.”

Dean and Cas exchange a weighted glance. It’s not hard to figure out who ‘Daddy’ is, not after their talk with Meg.

“And I’ve been assigned to prisoner detail for _weeks_ , Murphy,” the demon continues. “Weeks! And then I make _one fucking comment_ about Daddy Dearest to Tommy-Boy—”

The second demon—Murphy—is a few paces ahead of the other one, and slows when he reaches the trees. “Yeah, that’s… That’s great, Leroy,” he says absently, his eyes locked on the trees. He’s only a few yards from where Dean and Castiel are crouched, and from the way he sniffs at the air, he knows that.

Leroy, meanwhile, is still too caught up in his own melodrama to notice. He turns completely around, his hands on his hips, and continues his rant. “And the next thing I know, I’m out on patrol! And Tom completely takes over on torture…”

Castiel stops listening to the gibberish falling from Leroy’s mouth to focus instead on Murphy, who has come even closer to where they are hiding. He gives Dean only a brief warning—a quick touch to his thigh—before leaping forward with angelic speed and grabbing the demon, wrapping one hand around his throat and plastering the other across his mouth as he drags him to the ground.

He’s burned the demon out of its husk before the body even connects with the leaf-strewn dirt. Its burnt-out eye sockets smoke slightly—an unavoidable side effect of the grace required to smite the foul creature that had taken up residence—but Castiel pays this no mind as he conceals the corpse in the underbrush. He watches the next demon carefully, waiting for the best opportunity to strike.

Leroy, as Castiel had hoped, is completely oblivious to the death of his partner. He’s still talking, even. “And now here I am, freezing my ass off out here, with…” He trails off, finally turning back around. “Murphy? The fuck, Murph, where are you?”

Leroy pulls a knife from his belt and takes a few tentative steps toward the tree line. Castiel tenses, ready to spring, but Dean stops with a tap to his knee. Castiel meets his mate’s eyes and, seeing the determination set within them, nods once.

“Murph?” Leroy calls, walking into the forest with his knife at the ready. “Murphy, stop messin’ around! Murphy!”

Just as the demon steps past the tree Dean is directly behind, he pulls Castiel’s blade from his pocket and jumps to his feet. He catches Leroy by his shirt collar and hauls him back to pin him against the tree. Leroy drops his knife and his mouth falls open in confusion and surprise, but no words escape before Dean buries the angel blade in his chest.

“Next time,” Dean says as the demon’s life burns out, lighting him up from the inside out, “don’t complain about your job so much.”

Castiel grins, and watches as Dean removes the blade and lets the body drop to the ground. He is struck by how beautiful his mate is in that moment, staring down at his kill not unlike a wrathful deity would. In a stark contrast to this image, however, are the spots of cold along Dean’s face, staining his cheeks and the tip of his nose pink.

It’s kind of adorable. And incredibly arousing.

When Dean meets his eye, though, his expression is stony, prompting the angel’s smile to slip. “Dean? Are you alright?”

Dean takes two quick steps forward, not once taking his eyes off Castiel’s, and plants a bruising kiss on his lips. There’s no finesse to it, only the forceful contact and a hand clawing at the back of Cas’ head, but it still sends his heart racing. He reciprocates as best he can in the brief amount of time he has before Dean pulls away.

“I just gotta say,” Dean says, breathing heavily, “you taking down that demon like you did was probably the sexiest, most _badass_ thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Castiel huffs a laugh, pleased to know that his own thoughts were not unreasonable. “I’m glad you think so. Although, I feel compelled to tell you that it was far from being my best work. And you did well yourself.”

Dean shrugs. “I got mine, yeah, but I don’t have _magic smiting hands_. Seriously dude, those things are awesome.” He glances down at the burnt-out remains of ‘Murphy’ lying at their feet. “And smiting is… thorough. Why’s it fry out the eyes like that?”

“Demons are not easy to kill,” Castiel says, letting his eyes, too, fall on the corpse. “Smiting utilizes grace, and pure grace is…” He pauses, unsure of how to describe the substance in a way a human could easily grasp. After a moment, he continues, “Grace is like stardust. Like the surface of the sun. It can be very damaging when we allow it to be, and to demons most of all, as they are our opposites in every way.”

Dean nods slowly, thinking this through. “Alright, that makes sense. Your blade—is it the same kind of thing? Is that why it can kill demons, and why there was that whole light-show bit when I stabbed our buddy Leroy?”

“Precisely, yes. The blade is formed from my own grace, and thus holds the same abilities. It is effective against angels, as well.”

Dean blanches slightly at that and turns his head away sharply, taking a deep breath through his nose. “Okay, moving on,” he says. He points to the two bodies, nearly side-by-side on the ground. “What do we do with these poor schmucks? We have to get into that cave.”

Castiel stares down at them, considering. Another cough racks him, spurred on by the cold-induced ache in his chest. “As long as we are quick in our investigations, I believe we can leave these here without risking detection,” he says. “Their absence should not be noticed for some time, if they were due to patrol as their conversation implied.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Dean agrees. “But, uh… Did you hear what else they said? Or at least, what Chatty Kathy said? About that Tom guy?”

“That he is Azazel’s son?”

Dean shakes his head. “No—Well, yeah, that too, but not what I meant. No, Cas—He said he was on _prisoner detail_. They got someone chained up in there, Cas! And they’re torturing the poor bastard to boot! You know what that means, right?”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “That we have to save whoever it is?”

“I was gonna say jailbreak,” Dean replies with a shrug. “But yeah, same thing. We’re probably going to have to go a ways in there to do that. This is more than just espionage, Cas.”

Castiel sighs, tipping his head back to stare at the bright, grey sky. He had noticed when Leroy first mentioned a prisoner, yes, but he hadn’t put too much thought into it. He was a bit preoccupied, as it happened. But that doesn’t change the fact that their supposed ‘scouting’ mission just got a lot more complicated.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then nods at Dean. “We shouldn’t delay any longer. Are you prepared for this?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth lifts in a smile, and his hand visibly shifts within his coat pocket to better grip the weapon concealed there. “As I’ll ever be.”

~

They make it into the cave fairly easily, though their progress is slow, accounting for the vast unknowability of what they are getting themselves into. All of Castiel’s senses are extending as far out as possible in hopes of detecting something— _anything_ —but it’s useless.

The fact of the matter is, the labyrinth-like layout of the caves causes anything he _can_ detect to be near-impossible to locate. There is too much sulfur, the air heavy with the smell of it, and far too many possibilities of where a particular source may be coming from to even begin to trace any one scent.

It’s rather infuriating, really.

Dean notices his frown and raises an eyebrow in silent question, but Cas shakes his head. If worst comes to worst and there turns out to be too many demons to handle, he can grab Dean and fly them both out. It’s not an ideal solution, but it’s still a solution. There’s no point in worrying Dean.

As they continue their descent into the cave, however, another problem becomes apparent—neither of them knows where to go. Several times the main tunnel splits into two, sometimes even three or four pathways, each of which appears to be identical to the others. By mutual agreement, they try to continue in as much of a straight line as possible, leaving the side tunnels unexplored.

The only positive feature of the cave system is that it is well-lit. Electric lights are mounted into ceiling of the tunnel, one every ten feet or so. Black wires string them all together, though where they connect to receive their power is anyone’s guess.

After six or so of the tunnel-intersections, Dean and Castiel reach what can only be the central cavern, miraculously without having encountered any more demons. The space is huge, the domed ceiling and the far walls hardly visible in the dim light.

A single demon—this one possessing a young white woman with limp red hair—is seated at a long, polished conference table situated in the middle of the cavern. An extra-bright circle of light is directed down onto the table and highlights her form, making it easy to see the way she twitches with barely-contained agitation, a deep scowl etched across her features.

And it is entirely too easy to see the fresh blood on her hands. Crimson soaks one of her hands up past her wrist, while on the opposite arm the stain is limited to the inside of her palm and fingers.

Dean tugs Castiel to the side of the tunnel, where they will be less easily noticed by anyone else possibly patrolling the cavern. He fumes at the sight of the blood, nearly vibrating with rage, and whispers to Cas, “Guarantee that’s from their _prisoner_.”

Castiel nods, but doesn’t take his eyes off of the demon. He watches her body language, evaluates for a moment longer, then turns his head just enough to line his lips up with Dean’s ear. “She’s waiting for someone,” he says quietly. “Given the blood, that person is likely with the prisoner as we speak. Be patient.”

Dean glares, but doesn’t object.

Within only a few minutes, a dark-haired demon strolls out of one of the other branches of the cave system, wiping his own bloody hands on a dirty washrag. More blood is spattered across the front of his grey t-shirt, only just visible beneath his coat. He approaches the red-haired demon casually, and with a clear air of superiority. When he reaches her end of the table, he tosses his rag down and stares at her—an action she mirrors with vehemence for a long moment.

But then whatever resolve she had breaks, and she bows her head in shame.

The man’s lips twitch with a smile. “You had orders, Miri,” he says, calmly but forcefully. “You were not to inflict critical injuries on the prisoner. We _need_ him, in case you have forgotten.”

Miri says nothing. Below the edge of the table, her hands curl into fists.

“You could have ruined everything,” the man continues. “All of our best-laid plans gone to waste, because of your bloodlust. There is a time and a place for that, Miri, and this is neither.”

Now Miri does respond, but her mumbled words are too quiet for even Castiel to hear.

The man rolls his eyes. “You think I care? If your friend allowed himself to be killed by such a pitiful human, he _deserved_ to die.”

Miri’s head suddenly snaps up to reveal black eyes and a pair of lips curled into a snarl. “That isn’t—”

But then the man is gripping her long hair in his hand, yanking her head back to expose the column of her throat. He still appears as calm as ever while he says, “I’m sorry, Miri, but you know my father’s rules. You must be punished.”

Miri’s face goes slack, her eyes widening. “No, Tom—I didn’t even _kill_ Winchester, I—”

Tom just shakes his head. With his free hand, he reaches into an inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a small, oddly-shaped, serrated knife, and slits Miri’s throat. Blood erupts from the cut, spilling out all across her, but Castiel hardly notices in light of the knife’s other effect.

The possessed body lights up with sparks of red-orange light as the demon dies.

And it wasn’t even an angel’s blade that did it.

It shouldn’t be possible.

Tom releases his grip on the now-dead body and it falls forward to slump against the table. He inspects the bloodied edge of his knife with a long sigh, then puts it back into his coat without even bothering to wipe it off.

Then he turns on his heel and leaves the cavern through the tunnel next to the one he entered from.

The heavy silence that envelops the cave in his wake lasts for all of ten seconds before Dean cracks, clutching desperately at the lapels of Cas’ trench coat with hands that shake just a little too much. “She said _Winchester_ , Cas,” he whispers, luckily still mindful of their surroundings. “These bastards have my _dad_.”

Castiel nods and runs a hand through his mate’s hair, hoping help soothe the panic he can smell rising from Dean’s every pore. If Castiel can smell it, chances are a demon could, too. “Dean, you are a professional,” Cas reminds him softly. “We must be very, _very_ careful here, whether it truly is John Winchester they have or otherwise. Tom is Azazel’s son, remember? If he is in charge here, he is very powerful. We have to be on guard.”

Dean takes a deep breath through his nose—and he is close enough to Castiel that the angel suspects he is being scented—before nodding once. “Right,” he says, “yeah. We got this.” He turns his head and peers into the dim cavern, his fingers slackening on his mate’s coat but still not releasing. “Okay. Which way should we go, then? The way Tom came from? That’s probably our best bet of finding my dad.”

“I believe so,” Castiel agrees. “Although, if we do that first, we are giving up any chance we have of investigating any other veins of the cave.”

Dean chews lightly on his bottom lip while he thinks this over, then shakes his head. “It’s fine. We already know the basics of what’s happening here, and we have pictures of the sigil outside. We know Tom’s here. Finding my dad has pretty much been our main objective since this whole mess started, Cas. If we have the chance, we’re not missing it.”

“Of course,” Castiel says easily. “Don’t misunderstand me, Dean, I completely agree that we should find your father. I only wanted to ensure that you were fully aware of the situation.”

Dean’s lips quirk up in a smile. “Well thank you, Cas. Can we get on with it, then?”

“You’re the one holding me against a wall, Dean.”

“Oh! Right.” Dean finally drops his hands and takes a full step backwards. He tips his head in the direction of the cavern. “Shall we?”

They skirt around the edge of the cavern, their main reason for doing so being to avoid the bright central light—as well as the corpse that sits under it, although Castiel knows Dean would never say so aloud. He can see it in his mate’s eyes, though, flicking in the girl’s direction every few paces.

When they are almost to the tunnel they saw Tom emerge from previously, another female demon comes down the passageway Dean and Castiel had just vacated. She whistles a rather ominous-sounding tune as she goes, and its echoes off the stone walls make Castiel’s blood run cold. Fortunately, however, the demon seems to be caught up in her own thoughts, and doesn’t notice them standing off to the side of the cavern in the semi-darkness before she strolls back out through another tunnel.

Dean huffs. “That was a bit close for comfort.”

“Agreed.”

And then they finally make it to their destination at the far side of the cavern, slipping undetected into the next entryway and following it down even deeper into the earth. The tunnel comes to an end only a short distance later, opening up into a small chamber a fraction of the size of the central cavern, though just as poorly lit.

In the center of the chamber, John Winchester is chained to a rack.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat and darts forward, heedless of any other threats that may be lurking in the room. “Dad!” he whispers, likely knowing that he won’t get a response. He holds his hand in front of John’s mouth as if to check if the man is still breathing, then presses two fingers over the carotid artery. After a long moment, the tension in Dean’s shoulders lessens and he relays his conclusion to Cas, “He’s alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT. As of the time of this posting, it's still Monday in my timezone. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm counting that as a victory. I'm not a complete failure yet. Hooray! 
> 
> Some **important notes** for this chapter:  
>  1\. Warning for gore. The "graphic depictions of violence" tag is in place, as I know you can see, but I still want to call attention to it anyway. There are some graphic descriptions of torture/post-torture horribleness right off the bat, so if that's a problem, skip over the first paragraph, at the very least.
> 
> 2\. Chapter features John Winchester. This is _not_ a Nice Guy John fic, and so he _really_ isn't a nice guy. Warning for (brief) homophobic language.
> 
> And, as always, a special thanks to [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com/) for being an amazing beta.

John’s body is limp against the metal rack, sagging from the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. He is naked from the waist up. From there, every inch of visible skin is covered in cuts and lacerations of varying length and depth, and the subsequent blood from his torture has run downward, drenching the torn remains of his jeans. His entire abdomen seems to be torn open, large chunks of flesh having gone missing and in some places exposing muscles and internal organs that were never meant to be exposed. Beside the rack, a workbench is covered with tools of various shapes and purposes, most of which have sharp points, and all of which are coated with layers of dried or drying gore.

It is not difficult to imagine how the demons in the main cavern had managed to get so much of John’s blood on themselves.

Dean makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat and darts forward, heedless of any other threats that may be lurking in the room. “ _Dad!_ ” he whispers, likely knowing that he won’t get a response. He holds his hand in front of John’s mouth as if to check if the man is still breathing, then presses two fingers over the carotid artery. After a long moment, the tension in Dean’s shoulders lessens and he relays his conclusion to Cas, “He’s alive.”

Castiel hesitates before following after Dean, eyeing the small line of sigils carved into the wall around the perimeter of the chamber. The power they exude is subtle but steady, and they make his wings twitch in their confinement. He can’t fly in or out of this room, nor from the tunnel to the central cavern, as he had noted a number of sigils leading down its length as well. It’s not an exciting prospect, taking into account the eventual escape plan they will have to form. If any demons make their way down from the main cavern, they won’t have any choice but to fight their way out, John in tow.

He has no alternative but to accept this, though, so he puts aside his concerns and joins Dean at John’s side. His mate is twitchy, visibly torn between wanting to help his father however possible and needing to look away from the gore to preserve his sanity. His eyes lock on Castiel the moment he is next to him, desperate for something to focus on. “Cas, we need to do something.”

Castiel nods, leaning forward to inspect the bonds securing the older human to the rack. The bands are thankfully simple, not designed to contain anything more powerful than a human, and are therefore formed from plain, un-warded metal. Opening them will not pose a problem.

“Dean, be ready to catch him,” Castiel warns. Once Dean is in position, he releases the latches on the restraints with a quick flick on his grace.

John falls rather heavily onto Dean, the excessive blood staining his clothes also, but Dean grits his teeth and bears the extra weight without issue. He is gentle in lowering his father to the stone floor, scanning the myriad of wounds but pointedly not touching any of them. “Cas.” Green eyes flash up, wide and filled with a childlike sort of terror. “Cas, he’s in bad shape. What do we do? Can we carry him out?”

Castiel kneels beside his mate on the floor, maintaining eye contact and instinctively resting a hand at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder in a show of support. He traces his thumb over the imprint of his own teeth he finds there while he speaks. “I can help, Dean, but first, I need you to take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?” When Dean does, Cas smiles and presses in on the mating bite just a little bit more. “Good. We still have to be on guard here, so it is important that you keep your head.”

As if emphasizing Castiel’s point, a loud crash suddenly echoes from elsewhere in the maze of caves, the sound like that of several items being thrown or dropped. It doesn’t seem as if the origin of the commotion is too close to the torture chamber, at least, as it sends no demons immediately storming in their direction.

Dean huffs, staring toward the tunnel as if he fully expects someone to come down it. “We need to get the fuck out of here, now. Can you just fly us out? Get him to a hospital or something?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I cannot fly from this room, no. We would need to get your father back to the main cavern, at least, before I can transport us elsewhere. But for now…” He drops his hands from Dean and rotates in place to face John fully, taking in the extent of his injuries up close. They are bad, yes. Likely even fatal, if he had been left here in the demons’ hands much longer, and they look severe enough for the man to be dead already. But they are not irreversible.

Castiel touches his first two fingers against John Winchester’s forehead, in the center of his brow. He channels his grace though the small point of contact into John’s body, expending just enough to knit flesh and organs back together, to put the pieces back to a whole. Growing new tissue altogether also takes concentration, but it is nothing Castiel has not done in the past. He purposefully steers himself clear of the man’s soul, though, telling himself that it is for fear of being distracted.

The healing is done in a matter of seconds, and Dean gasps. “Dude, what the fuck?” he asks, squinting at his father’s still-bared torso like he is searching for evidence of the wounds that had so recently marred the man’s flesh. He finds none, of course, and looks to Castiel with raised eyebrows. “How the _fuck_ did you do that?”

Castiel frowns for a moment, not sure what he means—and then he remembers how little time he and Dean have truly spent together. Dean must never have seen Castiel use his full healing capabilities. In light of that, Castiel supposes his mate’s confusion is understandable. Now is not the time for an elaborate explanation, though, so he simply says, “It is one of the many uses of grace.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth lifts in a smile, and he gives a slight shake of his head. “And the wonders never cease,” he mutters before his attention is drawn back to John, who has begun to stir as he rises toward consciousness. Dean taps at his shoulder. “Hey, Dad? Dad, you need to get up, we gotta go.”

John’s eyes flicker open in response to his son’s words and he struggles into a sitting position, a hand clutching at his abdomen and groaning at the phantom pains that likely still linger there. He does a quick scan of the perimeter of the room—and then his eyes fall on Dean. “Dean?” he says, his brow furrowing. “What the hell are you doing here, son?”

A variety of emotions roll across Dean’s face, probably too quickly for John to decipher, but plain as day to Castiel. He looks uncomfortable above all else, Castiel observes, before he quickly clears his throat, reins himself in, and slips on an emotionless mask the likes of which Cas has never seen him wear. “We came to get you out of here,” he tells John, which isn’t completely untrue. “We were investigating some omens—”

John’s eyes narrow. “We?” he repeats, and it is only then that he seems to notice the man at Dean’s side. He assesses Castiel for a long moment before his expression clears and resettles into something like forced politeness. “And who are you, then?”

Now that John’s eyes are on him, Castiel can see directly into his soul—and what he finds nearly makes him sick. Decades ago, John’s soul was probably a sight to behold, bright like his son’s. Now, however, that light is covered in soot, blackening it and weighing it down. The dark, twisting mess practically _screams_ with pain and violence and anger at anything and everything, as well as countless other horrible emotions. Above it all, though, is a single word, enwrapped in bitter mourning and black rage: _Mary_.

The most significant observation Castiel makes is not of something he sees, but rather something he doesn’t.

John Winchester holds no compassion for his children. Or at least, if he does, it is too far buried beneath the abundance of negative emotions that roil over the surface of his soul to make any difference.

Dean had told Castiel some of the basics of his relationship with his father, more than enough for the angel to know that John is an inadequate parent in many ways. Yet, even having that knowledge as the base for Castiel’s impression of the man, it could in no way have prepared him for the real thing.

Castiel swallows hard, fighting to keep his immediate dislike of John from showing on his face. Before he can introduce himself, however, Dean blurts, “This is Cas. My, um… My friend.”

Castiel barely refrains from wincing at that. He knows Dean’s response is a reflection of his and John’s imperfect relationship, a breed of fearful insecurity that Castiel can understand based on what he sees of the man’s soul, but the logic doesn’t lessen the sting of his mate’s denial as much as he may have hoped.

John inspects him for a bit longer, then nods decisively as he accepts the cover. He has no reason to question it, after all. John casts his eyes around the chamber once more, his gaze lingering temporarily over the metal torture rack—and then he freezes completely, his frown growing even deeper. He slowly turns toward Dean, tapping his forefinger against the center of his chest and asking, “How am I not still carved up like a cheap piece of meat?”

“I healed you,” Castiel answers, not wanting to leave Dean an opening to think of a cover story for _that_ , too, and thus dig them both into a deeper lie than they are already in. Dean gives him a sharp look, but he ignores it. “I am an angel of the Lord.”

John raises a single eyebrow. “Is that so? What’s _Cas_ short for, then? Cassiel?”

“Cas- _ti_ -el,” he corrects, at the same time that Dean asks, “Since when do you know angel names?”

John scoffs at his son. “Since I learned they were real a few years back. I could ask you the same thing, though. Where’d you pick up this _Castiel_ of yours? Angels are stuck-up elitists, they don’t work with humans.”

Castiel frowns. “Where did you learn that?”

“It’s true; does it matter where I learned it?” John rolls his eyes and looks toward Dean. “Notice that he doesn’t deny it.”

The _nerve_ of this man. Castiel has to focus every ounce of his willpower to keep from losing his cool and lashing out at John. “Not all of my kind like humans,” he confesses, eyes flickering in his mate’s direction, “but I myself am not included among those numbers. Some members of the Host may be ‘elitists’ as you say, but do not assume we are all the same, John Winchester.”

John narrows his eyes at Cas and gets to his feet, crossing his arms as he looms over the angel. “You know, Castiel, I can’t say I like your attitude. In fact, I don’t know if I like the fact that you’re ‘friends’ with my son, because something tells me that’s a crock of shit to begin with. What is it you _really_ want with my boy?”

Castiel stands, too, finding himself set on edge by John’s attempted display of dominance over him. He reaches out a hand and helps Dean to his feet as well, not wanting his mate to be subjected to the same breed of condescension.

Although he almost regrets making the effort when Dean drops his hand with a speed like he had been burned. The clear mix of regret and uncertainty in his scent does nothing to ease the burning in the base of Castiel’s throat.

“Do not accuse me of _wanting_ anything,” Castiel snarls in John’s direction. “You know nothing about me, nor my relationship with Dean. And seeing as we risked ourselves to save you, and that I just _healed_ you, I don’t believe you are in any position to be showing such disrespect.”

“Your _relationship_?” John repeats, his voice growing in volume. “And what _relationship_ is that? Dean may have called you his friend, but I know my boy better than that, and he would _never_ associate himself with inhuman scum like you, not willingly. So what did you do to him, huh? Is this like a demon deal, are you after his soul? What is it?”

The thought nearly makes Castiel wince, but he is robbed of the opportunity to refute John’s claims himself when Dean jumps in between them. He has a placating hand raised in each of their directions, but it is obvious that John is his focus.

“Dad, you need to back off,” Dean growls—literally, unless Castiel is misidentifying the rumbling sound that seems to very clearly be coming from his mate’s chest. “We can deal with this shit later, alright? The last thing we need is a bunch of demons coming down on our asses while you’re trying to have some bullshit pissing contest with my boyfriend.”

Dean realizes his mistake the instant the word leaves his mouth, and his whole body tenses. His scent, too, takes a plunge into full-blown panic, a horrible, bitter smell that makes Castiel burn with the desire to console him. He doesn’t dare move, though, not with the way John is glaring at them both.

John’s upper lip curls up in disgust. “Care to say that again, son?”

Dean winces. “Well, um. _Boyfriend_ actually isn’t entirely… uh. Accurate.” He takes a step away from John and toward Cas, putting him close enough to the angel that their arms brush. “It’s kind of more like… husband.”

John is quiet for a moment, his face steadily twisting with confusion as he thinks the confession over. Finally he says, “Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“No, it’s not a joke,” Dean says. “But you know what else isn’t a joke? The fact that this is _not_ the place to be having this conversation. We can hash this out at Bobby’s for all I care, but let’s just get out of this goddamn cave before something shows up to kill us. Please.”

“No,” John spits, “I’m dealing with this now. What’s your game, Castiel? You think you can show up, weasel your way into my son’s head, and just do whatever you want with him? I’m not going to just stand by while you _brainwash_ him. Because let me tell you, this isn’t him. I didn’t raise a damn _fag_.”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath, and Castiel instantly sees red. An animalistic rage takes hold of him, and he steps around his mate, fully prepared to fight and incapacitate John should the need arise. He holds onto what shreds of his control he can manage for long enough to jab his finger in the direction of the tunnel. “Go. Now. If you don’t, I will not hesitate to leave you in this pit. I will not tell you again, John.”

John’s glare only seems to grow in intensity, but he doesn’t object. Instead, he turns on his heel and marches up toward the main cavern. His hands stay clenched into fists at his sides the whole way as he mutters under his breath about manipulative angels and voices some rather unpleasant opinions about homosexual relationships.

If Castiel didn’t love Dean as much as he does, he might have considered killing John then and there. He lets him walk away, however, and turns to face his mate. “Dean, I have unfortunate news.”

Dean sighs, but doesn’t meet the angel’s gaze. His eyes are glued to the mouth of the tunnel. “What, Cas.”

“I don’t like your father.”

Dean snorts, although the revelation shouldn’t truly surprise him. “Yeah. Join the club.”

Cas grabs his hand, squeezes it once. “We really should go. We’ve spent far too long here, and I fear your father was much too loud. We should consider ourselves fortunate that we have not been caught as of yet.”

Dean nods, dropping his eyes to their intertwined fingers. “I know. Come on, then. The sooner we get to Bobby’s, the better. He’s always been good at dealing with Dad’s shit.”

Dean lets his hand slide from Castiel’s as they follow John’s path out of the torture chamber. The walk seems to take far longer up than it had down, but Castiel is too relieved by the steadily-reducing effect of the sigils on the walls to dwell on the relativity of time.

When they finally reach the central cavern, Dean stumbles to a halt in front of Castiel. The large room is even dimmer than before, and Dean’s head is on a near-constant swivel as he scans the shadows nearest to them. Castiel tries to throw his senses out and search for threats, but just as he discovered when he and Dean first entered the cave system, there is too much interference for it to be of any use.

After a few seconds, Dean drops back to stand even with Castiel and whispers, “My dad’s gone.”

Castiel nods once to show his understanding and takes a few short steps forward to peer around the perimeter of the cavern himself. Nothing strikes him as out of the ordinary, and as far as he can tell, everything but the lighting is the same as it had been when they crossed the room the first time. He slowly drifts further into the room, his senses on high-alert for whatever good it’ll do.

Suddenly, Dean’s scent spikes with panic. “Cas, wait, no—!”

A ring of fire springs to life around Castiel, and he instinctively flinches away from it. The flames easily reach past his knees, and even though the circle is a few feet in diameter, they are entirely too close to him for comfort. Every fiber of his being screams with the need to distance himself, to _flee_ , but at the same time he is trapped within himself, unable to escapes, hardly able to move.

He hasn’t seen holy fire in thousands of years. It’s just his luck that it would come back into use now, of all times.

“Cas!”

Castiel spins around and meets Dean’s fearful gaze, but there is nothing he can do but watch as his mate draws the borrowed angel blade from his coat pocket and slashes at the hulking demon that is charging toward him. The first swipe is lucky—the tip of the blade catching on the demon’s bicep when Dean ducks its attack—but the wound only serves to agitate it, and it whirls on Dean with even more force. The demon smashes one of its heavy fists across Dean’s face, then punches him in the stomach.

Dean manages to recover quickly, though, and spits a glob of blood at the demon’s feet. “Come on,” he taunts with a weak, forced grin, “that all you got?”

The demon grunts and charges again, moving with blind rage and speed like a bull. Dean doesn’t stand and fight this time, instead pivoting and dashing in a line perpendicular to the demon’s, and comes straight toward Castiel and his holy-fire prison. The demon struggles to adjust to the change in trajectory, and almost falls on its ass when it turns.

It was just the delay Dean needed, and he reaches the line of holy fire at nearly full-speed and jumps. The flames hiss and flicker when he crosses over them, dragging across the soles of his boots, but he lands within the circle without issue, narrowly missing bowling over Castiel.

The demon, meanwhile, does fall on its ass when it’s forced to take measures to keep from touching the holy fire. It had tried to turn and go around the circle and lost its balance instead, due to what Castiel suspects is a lack of coordination between the demon itself and the body it is possessing. No matter the reason, Dean laughs, and the demon is quick to stand and give him a dark look. “That fire will only protect you for so long,” it snarls.

Dean rolls his eyes, unfazed. “Yeah, but it still stopped you. So fuck off.” He raises an eyebrow at Cas, and the angel notices that he is breathing heavily from just that small fight. “What the hell is this?”

“Holy fire. Angels cannot cross it.”

“Ah.”

From one of the tunnels on the far side of the cavern, someone begins to clap. It’s a slow, rhythmic clap, every beat of which is saturated with condescension. The clapping comes closer, and a figure becomes visible in the gloom. “Good. That was very good. But Dean, I have to ask—what gave it away there at the end?”

Castiel sees Dean’s hand flex around the handle of his blade before he answers. “Miri’s body is gone,” he answers stiffly. “No way you came in here just to clean up a corpse and somehow didn’t notice that we were here. You need to be more careful, Tom.”

Tom finally steps into a patch of light, illuminating the wicked smirk on his face. He walks forward, setting a path around the holy-fire ring. “You’re smart, Dean. I like that. Apparently, however, you aren’t _that_ smart, because then you went and encased yourself in holy fire. It’s only angels who can’t cross it, you know; demons are fair game. And you know what else? I was going to let you go, have Abelard toss you back out into the snow. But since you’re being difficult…”

“You will not harm him,” Castiel interjects. “If there is something you want, you can take it from me.”

Tom makes a face, looking faintly impressed. “Can’t say I can promise that, but I do like the idea. It’s not up to me, though, angel-cake. You’re in my father’s hands now.”

Castiel knows what’s going to happen before it does. It all plays out in his mind in an instant, a heavy sense of dread pooling in his gut as the clues fall into place.

A second figure seems to materialize in the shadows beside Tom, taller and sturdily built. He whispers a few words, and then Tom nods and steps out of the light.

And John Winchester takes his place. He smirks at Dean, the yellow of his eyes glinting despite the poor lighting. “Hello, son.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom comes up behind his father, smirking at the pair trapped by the fire. “Interesting might not be the best word,” he muses. He raises an eyebrow at Dean. “So you’re really this angel’s bitch, huh? And here I thought my sis was making shit up.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper and tells them, almost conspiratorially, “She does that sometimes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Before we get down to business, I have a quick note. There will ~~(most likely)~~ **not** be a new chapter update next week. As much as it pains me, I have several midterms this week, and so I won't have as much time as I'd like to put toward writing. Oh, the joys of college. I'll do my best to make it up to you, I promise.
> 
> Also, I'd like to give a special thanks to [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com) for being an amazing human being and the best beta anyone could ever ask for.
> 
> And now, all of that being said: Enjoy.

Dean staggers a half-step backward, bumping into Castiel in the small space. “No,” he mutters, staring at the body of his father, transfixed. “No no no no no.”

Azazel saunters forward with a grin. He stops right on the edge of the ring of holy fire, completely unbothered by its flames. The body he possesses is fully clothed, now, and everything he wears is free of blood for the time being. “Oh yes, Dean. Sorry, but did you really think you were going to get out of here so easily? Especially when things have only just gotten so…” His eyes flick toward Castiel. “ _Interesting_.”

Tom comes up behind his father, smirking at the pair trapped by the fire. “ _Interesting_ might not be the best word,” he muses. He raises an eyebrow at Dean. “So you’re really this angel’s bitch, huh? And here I thought my sis was making shit up.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper and tells them, almost conspiratorially, “She does that sometimes.”

Azazel rolls his eyes at his son. “She does, yes, but not now, so it seems. An angel and a human… How _disgraceful_ , eh, Castiel? I can’t imagine _Michael_ is pleased.”

Castiel only just keeps himself from wincing at the jab. He doesn’t want to think about Michael, nor how he would react to the relationship. Castiel _knows_ what his previous commander would say about Dean, and it is nothing he wants to actually hear.

Azazel chuckles. “Come on, angel. You can glare at me all you want, but that doesn’t change a thing. I still have you _and_ your bed warmer, and unless you want to watch me tear him apart limb by limb, I’d suggest you play nice.”

Castiel has physically bite his tongue to keep from immediately lashing out at Azazel for daring to even _threaten_ such a thing. Fact of the matter is, Azazel has a point. Angry though he may be about it, Castiel is useless for as long as he is pinned in by the holy fire, and having Dean beside him in the ring provides no leverage. He has already scanned the cavern in search of a means of escape, but as was to be expected, he found none. It was a well-laid trap, and their captors left no loopholes.

If Azazel wants him to ‘play nice’, he’ll make an effort. He stands up a bit straighter and maintains the force behind his glare, but he forces his hands to loosen from their fists, at the very least. Even the small submission makes him feel sick.

However, he refuses to risk Dean. He won’t do it, not now, not ever. Not to one of the most powerful demons in Hell.

“Ah, that’s better!” Azazel says cheerily. He looks the angel over with something like appreciation, then rolls his head to the side and raises and eyebrow at Dean. “And what about you, Dean?” he asks. “You’ve always been good at following orders, right? Think you can be a good little soldier and do as your father asks? Be polite, or I just might kill _lover-boy_ first and give you a front row seat.”

It hadn’t taken long for Dean’s initial wave of fear to mutate into a more malleable form. Rage has been steadily building within him, and by now he is vibrating with it, _exuding_ it. The smell of it clogs Castiel’s senses, almost overpowering even the persistent stench of sulfur that permeates the cave. “Listen up, you sick fuck,” he spits, “I don’t care _what_ you say, Cas and I ain’t doing _shit_ for you.” Dean pauses for a second, swallowing hard. “And how the fuck did you grab my dad? He has a tattoo, he’s warded. He knows better.”

“The warding is only effective if it’s actually there, bucko.” Azazel hooks a finger in the collar of his shirt and tugs it down as far as the cotton material will allow, though that range easily extends down past his clavicle and to the space that Castiel knows houses Dean’s own anti-possession tattoo. Azazel taps his finger against the expanse of blank skin, letting his captives take in the sight. “Tattoo removal is easier than one would think,” he says once he releases the shirt, “especially when there’s magic involved. Could have just _cut_ if off, of course, but then I figured that would be more obvious than hiding in plain sight. There was so much to _plan_ , Dean, more than your tiny mind could likely comprehend.”

Castiel growls, low in his throat, but Azazel silences him with a flippant wave of his hand. “We’re playing _nice_ , Castiel, in case you’ve already forgotten.”

“So that was you, then?” Dean asks suddenly, drawing the demon’s attention back to himself and completely ignoring the brief exchange that was had with his mate. “Down in that other room, was that you?”

Smirking, Azazel sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, the humanness of the movement entirely at odds with the putrid yellow still swirling across the surface of his eyes. “Do you really need to ask? You know your papa as well as anyone could, Dean. I think you’re capable of recognizing whether or not you’re actually talking to him.”

A muscle at the side of Dean’s jaw twitches from the force with which he clenches his teeth together. “Okay. You jumped him right after he came up the tunnel, then. What would you have done if he wasn’t ahead of us? Doesn’t seem well thought out.”

Azazel only says, “You’ve almost got it, kiddo,” before Castiel figures it out, and when he does, he mentally kicks himself for not having realized sooner. But he had been so repulsed by John Winchester’s soul, so aggravated by the man’s words and actions, that he failed to pay enough attention to what he now knows lurked beneath the surface.

“He was already possessing John when we arrived,” Castiel explains to his mate, still not taking his eyes from the demons in front of them. “It is safe to assume that John did not know he was possessed. A demon of Azazel’s caliber could hide his presence completely, if he so desired.”

“What he said,” Azazel says to Dean, jabbing his index finger in Castiel’s direction. He smirks at the angel, a wicked look in his already-demonic eyes. “I can let Johnny Boy back up to the surface, any time I want. But of course, Castiel, you should have been able to see through my ruse right away. Can’t get _anything_ past a seraph, now, can I? You’re too powerful to be so easily fooled. So maybe it’s your turn to share with the class. Why didn’t you tell your omega right away? I’m sure it would have saved you both some trouble.”

“I never withheld information,” Castiel says flatly. There isn’t much of an argument to be raised, unfortunately, because Azazel is _right_. Castiel _should_ have known, and he would have if he had not been so foolishly caught up in his own misgivings. He won’t admit the extent of his weaknesses, though, not to this demon. “I was distracted.”

For a fraction of a second, Dean stills, considering. Thankfully, instead of turning to Castiel with disbelief like part of the angel fears he will, he scoffs at Azazel. “See? He didn’t know. Nice try.”

Azazel shrugs, unbothered by the contention. His determination is unbroken. “Or maybe he just doesn’t trust you. Doesn’t _care_ about you. What good are you to an angel, anyway? All you give him is a place to stick his knot. You’re no more than a whore to him. He said himself, you’re a _distraction_.” He stops and chuckles as though he has thought of something particularly funny. “You spent years blindly following dear old dad, and now you follow your alpha with the same blindness. You never learn, do you?”

Dean shakes his head sharply, but Castiel can see how badly he trembles. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But on which account, Castiel is unsure. He doesn’t want to believe that Dean harbors any distrust toward him, but Azazel’s words are poison—carefully crafted to get at the very foundations of Dean’s self-doubt. With his grace restrained as it is by the holy fire, Castiel has very little to go off of in determining just how his mate is holding beneath the onslaught.

If it is him that Dean doubts, Castiel does not know how he will bear it.

“Oh, but don’t I?” Azazel taunts, starting to walk around the perimeter of the holy fire. Dean turns his head to follow the demon’s path, but Castiel remains still. “In case you’re too dense to realize, I’m in your daddy’s noggin, Dean-o! I have an all-access pass to every angst-ridden memory that makes up John Winchester. Most importantly, I know what he thinks of _you_. And how much worse will that get, do you think, now that he knows you’re a submissive little cock slut, too? An _omega_. How _shameful_.”

“There is nothing _shameful_ about secondary genders,” Castiel vehemently interjects, unable to hold his tongue on the matter. While he must trust Dean to be able to identify the rest of what Azazel says as the elaborate lie it is, he will not stand to hear his mate’s designation so blatantly insulted. Not when he already has so much work ahead of him in getting Dean to accept his growing angelhood. “Omegas are just as integral as alphas and betas, and don’t exist in any capacity aside from how God intended them to be. Dean has no reason to be ashamed of his designation as an omega, just as I have no reason to be ashamed of my designation as an alpha.”

Azazel, strolling oh-so-slowly, finally completes his first loop around the holy fire. He pauses briefly when he is in front of Castiel, pointedly raising both of his eyebrows, before continuing his forward motion. “Guess I hit a sore spot, huh? Maybe we should investigate that.”

For a brief instant, Dean presses his arm back against Castiel’s with more force than they already rested together with. He doesn’t let the touch linger, but Castiel appreciates the show of support regardless, more than he can express in the given circumstances.

Eyeing Dean and Castiel’s mutual, stony expressions, Azazel sighs. He’s standing directly behind Castiel when he speaks again. “You angel types are never any fun. Might have to change that. I have methods, of course. Tried and true. Think you could withstand them, Castiel? Several of your brothers and sisters have not. But then, most of them were just _cherubs_.”

Castiel grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to hear the things Azazel has done to his brethren, to angels who Castiel _knew_ , in all likelihood. Deaths among the Heavenly Host are a serious affair, and those lost are mourned by many if not all—they are too long-lived to care about each other any less, at least in some sense.

Azazel being the cause of who knows how many of those deaths stirs up a deeper hatred within Castiel than he already felt. He wouldn’t have thought the feat possible.

Azazel reads all of this on Castiel’s face and grins in victory. “Don’t like that, either, do you? Oh well. Maybe I’ll string you _both_ up, one across from the other, and test out my methods on each of you. See who breaks first. I think it could be fun.” He doesn’t stop talking or take his attention from Dean and Cas, but he raises his voice and asks, “That sounds like a decent plan, don’t you think, Tom? Think you can handle that for me, son?”

Tom, still standing on the fringes of the shadows, smirks. “Of course, father. We only want the best for our guests, after all.”

“Running off so soon?” Dean asks Azazel, glaring at the demon when he comes to a halt in front of them. “That’s impolite, you know. What’s more important than us?”

“Many things,” Azazel says absently, waving his hand. “I’ve got plans in the works, Dean-o. A lot of them. It’s not by accident that I came to be wearing your father like a cheap suit.”

Dean inhales sharply, grasping his meaning. “Stay the fuck away from my brother, you bastard.”

“Don’t think so,” Azazel retorts easily. He turns to Tom, claps him on the shoulder. “Take care of them, would you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” He looks back toward Dean and Castiel and flicks his wrist in a mock wave. “Until next time, boys.” And then he walks out of the cavern without a second glance.

Once they are alone, Tom approaches the holy fire. The flickering light of the flames makes Tom look more intimidating than it rightfully should. The demon flicks his eyes to black for long enough to look Castiel over, then returns them to the standard shade of brown inherent to the human he possesses and gives Dean a vile look and says, “I think it’s time we had some _real_ fun, don’t you? So Dean, how about you step out of the fire. Now.”

Dean looks down at the flames encircling his and his mate’s feet, humming as though in thought. “Yeah… I don’t think that’s gonna happen. I kind of like it in here, believe it or not.” He holds his hands out toward the fire, palms aimed down at the warmth. “Keeps me toasty.”

Tom smiles tightly. “I’m glad you amuse yourself,” he says. “But unfortunately, you don’t have a choice in the matter. Step out of the circle, or I drag you out. Something tells me you won’t like what that entails.”

Dean scowls, but stays resolute. Castiel can see his determination in the hard set of his shoulders, squared off against Tom. “Pretty sure I said no, dickhead. Do your worst.”

Now it’s Tom’s turn to make a face, his irritation at being refused obvious. “Okay, fine. Let’s up the ante, then.” From an inner pocket of his coat, he pulls out an old-looking, black revolver. He twists it in his grip, nonchalantly inspecting it from several angles. “Step out of the fire, or I shoot the angel.”

Cas isn’t sure what to make of that threat, but Dean just barks a laugh. “And what good will that do you?” he asks. “Last I checked, angels are pretty hard to kill. Only angel blades and black magic can kill an angel, so unless your little pistol has either, that isn’t your best threat.”

Castiel manages to catch Dean’s gaze and raises an eyebrow in question. He’s had a few close calls in the short time he and Dean have been together—a number which is startlingly high in relation to the rest of his life—but he is still impressed that his mate is aware of his exact weaknesses.

Dean just shrugs. “I had a long chat with Gabe about angel weaknesses last time I saw him.”

Last time. Right. When Castiel was, in fact, dying of black magic. It’s a logical conversation for Gabe to have had with Dean, given the circumstances.

Tom, however, is unbothered. “I think there’re a few things you don’t understand, Dean,” he says, running his finger along the barrel of the gun. “Loopholes, for example. Everything has them. For example, when you have a gun that was designed to kill anything, will it actually kill _everything_? Castiel here will make a perfect test subject.”

Castiel cocks his head to the side, unable to resist the wave of curiosity that hits him when he pieces together Tom’s meaning. He looks at the gun with a sharper stare, appreciating it for what it is. “You’ve found the weapon of Samuel Colt.”

Tom smirks. “So you’ve heard of it?”

“Of course.” Cas resists the urge to roll his eyes. Demons are so _repetitive_ , sometimes. “That is not a logical question to ask. I would not have named it if I had not _heard of it_.”

Dean hides a laugh in a cough.

Tom is less amused. His expression hardens, and he pulls back the hammer on the Colt, readying it to be fired. “Out of the circle, Dean.”

This time, instead of giving Tom sass, Dean turns to Castiel and asks solemnly, “Could that hurt you?”

The best Castiel can do is shrug, the motion limited to a slight twitching of his left shoulder. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I have no knowledge on whether or not it has ever been used against an angel. I’ve only heard tales of the gun’s special abilities, not seen it in used.”

Dean whips his head back to glare at Tom, muttering obscenities under his breath. After a moment of clear deliberation, he says, “Fine. I’m coming out. But, uh…” He casts the holy fire a wary glance. “I’m not sure I can hop this very easily. Think I could get a hand?”

Tom’s face wrinkles in confusion and something like disgust. “Are you kidding? Hop the damn line. You did it fine last time.”

Dean rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, throwing his whole body into the gesture of exasperation. “I had a running start, dumbass. Can’t exactly do that here, now can I? This is a thick line of fire, in case you didn’t notice. So unless you want to lose one of your two prisoners to something as dumb as tripping into holy fire, I think you can stand to help me out.”

Castiel finds himself holding his breath as the next moment passes, the cavern gone silent as Tom thinks it over. If Dean is thinking what Cas is thinking…

Eventually, Tom nods. He resets the hammer on the revolver, but leaves it in his hand while he gestures to the one other demon in the room. “Abelard, go… help, or whatever. Don’t cross the line.”

Abelard steps forward from his hiding place in the shadows and moves to stand next to Dean. He looks uncertain, glancing between Dean, the holy fire, Tom, and back again several times over, but he thankfully lacks the gall to question the orders from someone as high-ranking as Tom. Clearly unsure of what else to do, he extends an arm in Dean’s direction.

Unlike the previous times Dean has launched an attack, Castiel gets no warning.

Dean reaches for Abelard’s arm like he truly needs the additional support to make it across the line, but as soon as he has a firm grip on the demon, he gives a single, sharp tug. Abelard stumbles in his efforts to keep himself upright, but it proves useless the instant he crosses into the holy fire, because that’s when Castiel takes his opportunity to strike.

Castiel lunges forward and hooks an arm around the demon’s neck, simultaneously swinging his foot around to knock Abelard’s feet out from under him. With a quick pulse of grace, Castiel burns Abelard out of his shell, then tosses the lifeless corpse down onto the holy fire, smothering the flames in a section large enough for him to escape through.

He doesn’t think twice about walking across the body like the bridge to freedom that it is.

Tom, meanwhile, is stuck slack-jawed and staring, before his face contorts with rage. He takes a few quick step backwards as Castiel stalks toward him, fumbling one-handedly with the Colt. He manages to raise it, pull the trigger—

Castiel kicks him in the side of the leg just as the gun goes off, effortlessly snapping the femur and knocking the demon sideways, skewing the path of the bullet. It only grazes Castiel’s upper arm, the inflicted wound enough to draw blood and the bright shine of exposed grace, but not enough to do more than make him jerk, earning Tom a scant few additional seconds before the angel reaches him. Castiel rips the Colt from Tom’s hand and blindly tosses it aside. He then smoothly continues the movement of his arm forward again to latch a hand around the demon’s throat, easily lifting him nearly a foot off the ground.

“Hey, Cas?”

Castiel looks over at Dean, who has now come to stand next to him. He holds the Colt in his hand, his finger flexing against the trigger. He looks downright menacing when he meets Cas’ eye and says, “I think I got this one.”

The click of the revolver’s hammer accentuates his point.

Castiel drops Tom with a hint of a smile. “Of course, Dean.”

Tom crumples to the ground, unable to remain standing due to his broken leg. He looks up at Dean with narrowed eyes. “You wouldn’t dare,” he hisses, flicking his eyes to black when he suddenly finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun. “I’m Azazel’s _son_ , you think he’ll let you—”

He is cut off by the firing of the Colt and the bullet that blasts through the center of his skull. Orange and red lights spark through the body Tom had possessed as the demon itself dies within. It lasts for only a moment before he collapses backwards, staring at the cavern’s ceiling with empty eyes. A tendril of smoke escapes the hole in his forehead.

Dean sighs and tucks the Colt into the back of the waistband of his jeans, hiding it beneath his coat. “Well,” he says, his voice loud in the sudden silence of the cave, “that guy was a dick.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel puts up as much of a fight as he can, parrying every blow that comes his way, but no matter what he does, the fact remains that he is terribly outnumbered. It wouldn’t be a problem under normal circumstances, but the angel is painfully aware of his mate kneeling on the floor behind him doing who-knows-what. Until Dean finishes whatever it is he’s doing, Castiel is his only defense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, long time no see! I definitely needed that week off (and I passed my midterms; woo hoo!), so thank you all so much for being patient. It's very much appreciated, and I (will try to) promise it won't happen again any time soon. 
> 
> Beta'd, as always, by the wonderful [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com). Seriously, she's the best. You guys don't even know.
> 
> So without further ado: enjoy. <3

As it turns out, firing a gun—twice, at that—in an enclosed cave system full of demons is not the wisest of plans.

There is a brief lull after Dean kills Tom, both he and Castiel basking in their sudden freedom from what could have easily been a horrible fate. Then the horde descends. At first there’s one, then two, then half a dozen demons snarling with rage and launching themselves at Dean and Castiel.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, fumbling slightly in his rush to pull his mate’s blade from his coat pocket. He has a white-knuckled grip on the weapon as he stares down the approaching foes. But then he gasps, pivots, and tosses the blade to Castiel, eyes bright when he exclaims, “I have an idea!”

Castiel catches his blade on reflex, but that does not keep him from shooting Dean a warning look as the man all but throws himself out of Cas’ line of sight, the sound of rustling fabric the only indication that he is still there at all.

He hardly has time to wonder what Dean is up to once the first demon barrels into him, its shoulder braced for the impact and nearly knocking Castiel off of his feet. Castiel staggers from the force of it, but doesn’t hesitate to swing his blade up and around in an arch to skewer through the back of the demon’s neck. The female body it had been possessing falls to the floor just as the rest of the bunch arrive to take her place, at least two of these new oncoming opponents brandishing weapons of their own.

Castiel puts up as much of a fight as he can, parrying every blow that comes his way, but no matter what he does, the fact remains that he is terribly outnumbered. It wouldn’t be a problem under normal circumstances, but the angel is painfully aware of his mate kneeling on the floor behind him doing who-knows-what. Until Dean finishes whatever it is he’s doing, Castiel is his only defense.

Cas manages to get in a lucky shot on one of his attackers and put the body count a little more in his own favor when Dean yells, “Got it!” and jumps into the fray.

“Dean, wait—!”

But Dean is fearless, and Castiel sees only a quick flash of silver as Dean stabs Tom’s demon-killing knife into the chest of a possessed young man. For a fraction of a second Castiel fears that the knife will have no effect, that Tom’s use of it earlier had been an illusion and nothing more, but then the demon howls, burning out of its body as it should. Dean yanks the knife free when the corpse falls and immediately turns to the next demon nearest to him.

They make quick work of the remaining demons after that, their odds greatly improved by the additional demon-killing weapon. Castiel, too, becomes a greater force to be reckoned with once Dean is a part of the action, able to flit around the cavern unrestrained. He dances around every one of the demons’ attempted counterattacks, and he sees Dean take only one solid hit in the handful of seconds it takes for the cavern to be cleared.

Once the final demon has fallen, Dean stoops to clean the blood from his knife on one of their t-shirts. He sighs heavily when he stands, casting Castiel a weighted look. There’s a dark bruise forming on the arch of one of his cheekbones, the skin in the middle of it split and slowly oozing blood. “Have I ever told you that I hate demons? Because let me just say—I fucking hate demons.”

Castiel chuckles in response, but the sound is cut short by a gasp when a bolt of pain shoots up his shoulder and through his core. It was more of a shock-response than one of true, debilitating pain, but he had not anticipated the gunshot wound on his arm feeling like it does. The bleeding has long since stopped, but the bullet from the Colt scratched his grace in a way that stings, like a particularly bad bee sting might feel to a human.

“Cas?” Dean says urgently, darting forward and skimming a hand down the angel’s uninjured arm. “Babe, are you alright?

Castiel forces himself to take a deep breath through clenched teeth and nods. “I’m okay,” he says, uselessly gripping the cut on his arm. “I’m fine. We should probably leave; there may still be more demons inbound.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Dean agrees easily. “You okay to walk?”

The very thought exhausts Castiel. In lieu of an answer, he reaches out to grasp his mate’s shoulder and flies them both back to the Impala, where they had parked it halfway up the mountain. He has half a mind to just pick the vehicle up from there and take them all the way to Bobby’s, but Dean’s inevitable disapproval of the idea aside, he knows it’s likely best not to press his luck with the weak spot in his grace any more than is absolutely necessary.

Dean blinks at the abrupt change in scenery, the bright, mid-afternoon sun a blinding contrast from the artificial lighting of the demons’ cave, but he quickly adapts. Then, as if aware of Castiel’s thoughts, he gives the angel a heavy frown. “Damnit, Cas, you’re already not at full strength. You have to stop doing that. We could have walked.”

Castiel shrugs, managing a thin smile. “I was okay to do this much, I assure you. Just… not any more than this, perhaps. My grace is admittedly strained.”

“You’re a dumbass sometimes,” Dean scoffs, but the statement is belied by the soft affection brimming in his eyes. It doesn’t take long for the expression to melt away, though, the tenderness swiftly being replaced by dread as the blood drains from his face and reality sets in. “Oh fuck,” he breathes, “fuck, Cas, we have to go. We have to get to Bobby, we have to get to _Sam_. Azazel’s going to—”

“Dean.”

He takes an unsteady step closer to the Impala, fumbling to remove his keys from his pocket to gain entry. His voice becomes more frantic as he continues, “And we haven’t even _heard_ from Sam or Jess since you flew ‘em to Vegas. I mean, what if—”

“ _Dean_.”

Abandoning his search for his keys, Dean whirls on Castiel, his expression dark and panicked. “ _What_ , Cas?”

Castiel almost rolls his eyes. He isn’t irritated with Dean, exactly, but his patience has been worn thin by the ordeal with Azazel and his lackeys. Some of the things the demon had said… Well. He imagines that emotions are running a bit high at the moment for more reasons than one.

The adrenaline from the fight certainly isn’t doing anyone any favors, either.

“We need to drive,” he says to Dean with as much dignity as he can muster. He would be lying if he said that the unavoidable reliance on the car doesn’t irk him even more than usual in this particular instant, what with his actual inability to help his mate in the way he should be able to. He adds, “We can call both Sam and Bobby on the way to check in, and in the event of an emergency, we can contact Gabriel. That should be our last resort, though, as he is likely still dealing with either Zachariah or Michael.”

Dean blows out a long breath, glaring at the white cloud the cold weather causes it to form. “Yeah,” he replies blandly. “Right. Okay.”

He easily fishes his keys from wherever they had been stashed and climbs into the Impala without another word, leaving Cas standing alone in the center of the clearing. The angel waits there for a moment, breathing in the frigid mountain air and trying to hone his grace. His chest aches with every breath, a bitter reminder of his _first_ critical injury of the day. That pain, at least, has greatly receded from where it was earlier, largely due to the fact that his physical body took the brunt of the damage and not his grace.

With the gunshot wound on his arm, he is less fortunate. Everything about Samuel Colt’s revolver was designed to kill the supernatural, from the design of the weapon itself to the special bullets it fires. Although he isn’t sure what the effect of a direct shot would have been, Castiel knows for a fact that it would not have been good. The bullet only grazed him, but even still, it cut both flesh and grace, and that alone tells him that the gun is not to be underestimated.

He is immensely glad that it is no longer in the hands of the spawn of Hell.

Dean honks the car horn, twice in quick succession, when the angel hasn’t moved several minutes later. Castiel doesn’t delay in joining him any longer, and the moment the passenger door has closed behind him, Dean slams on the accelerator and the Impala pitches forward on the uneven path out of the clearing.

When Castiel nearly slams into the dashboard, Dean gives him a tight, apologetic look. “Sorry. Tried calling both Sam and Bobby already, but cell service is shit up here and I couldn’t get through. The faster we get back to town, the faster we can figure out what the hell’s going on.”

Castiel nods absently, relaxing back into his seat. The radio is off and the heater is turned to its highest setting—and rattling enough that he is surprised Dean is not showing any concern, the sound lending him to believe that a few small pieces must have shaken loose within the mechanisms—so it is entirely too easy for him to fall into his thoughts unrestrained.

Try as he might, he can’t turn his mind away from the exchange with Azazel.

Logically, he knows the demon was goading them. Every jab Azazel made, every confidence-crushing remark, was specifically chosen with the intention of drawing a reaction. There was only so much ammunition available to get at Castiel, of course, since anything beyond the basic would require a greater knowledge of his character than Azazel has access to.

The reminder of Michael’s inevitable disapproval, though? That’s eating at him more than he cares to admit, even to himself. Yes, he knows Michael no longer has true jurisdiction over him, but the archangel is still a major influence within the Host, one that Castiel is wise enough to know should not be gone against without just cause.

How will Michael respond when, as will eventually happen, Castiel brings Dean to live with him in Heaven? That will likely happen in less than a century, since Dean’s budding angelhood will grant him a long life akin to Castiel’s own immortality, and remaining on Earth beyond that would be less than ideal. Will the archangel object, or attempt to limit the interactions between his underlings and the new couple? Will he disrespect Castiel? Or, more importantly, will he disrespect Dean?

“Finally got service,” Dean says suddenly, putting a quick stop to Castiel’s train of thought. Dean taps a few buttons on his cell phone, eyes flicking to watch the road as he does so, and eventually activates speaker mode and holds the device between himself and Cas. He drums his free hand against the steering wheel while they wait for Sam to answer the call, muttering anxiously, “Come on, Sammy, come on.”

Sam doesn’t answer.

“Fuck!” Dean shouts, and when a recording of Sam’s voice prompts him to leave a message, he grits out, “Damnit, Sam, you better not be dead. Call me ASAP.”

He then snaps his phone closed with enough force that Castiel is truly surprised that the screen doesn’t break.

Cas cautiously moves a hand to Dean’s thigh, trying for a reassuring touch but more than aware of his mate’s worry-induced vulnerability, distress pouring off him in droves. Although his panic doesn’t ease, Dean spares a moment to shoot Castiel a grateful look. He dials Bobby next, again putting the call on speaker.

Bobby picks up before the end of the second ring. “Hello?”

“Bobby, when was the last time you heard from Sam?”

There’s a pause.

“This mornin’.” Bobby says slowly, his tone implying that he is thinking over his answer. “Probably about three hours ago. Why? What’s going on?”

Dean’s frown deepens. “Azazel wants him.”

“And how the hell do you know that, boy?”

“Short version? Cas and I ran into him.”

Over the line, Castiel can only just make out the sound of what he guesses is a book slamming shut and perhaps an accompaniment of breaking glass, though Bobby’s passionate string of curses and the nearer, perpetual rumble of the Impala make it difficult to be sure.

Dean chuckles humorlessly. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Sam and Jess were going to check out that ghost town in Nevada today,” Bobby says once he has reined himself in. “He was supposed to call me as soon as they were done there, but I haven’t heard from him yet. You tried calling?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, Bobby, I tried calling. Why else would I—”

“Now don’t you give me attitude, boy—”

Dean’s phone makes an odd trilling sound, and Dean fumbles the device so hard that he almost drops it. His eyes widen when he finally reads the screen. “Bobby, Sam’s calling. I’ll call you back.” He hits a button to presumably switch the call before Bobby has a chance to reply and immediately says, “Sammy?”

Sam’s responding sigh crackles slightly when it comes through the phone’s speaker. “You know, at some point, you should probably stop calling me that. I’m not twelve, Dean.”

Dean’s body sags in relief at the sound of his brother’s voice. He doesn’t even acknowledge Sam’s roundabout complaint, instead asking sharply, “Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone? Where are you, are you still in Nevada?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam sighs. “Jess and I were checking out Pioche this morning, and I was trying to get some more answers out of a county sheriff when you called. Place is empty, Dean, just like Ash said. And get this—we only found traces of sulfur in about half of the town, even though the other half was just as affected. Remember Ash said all of the pets were killed, too? Not entirely true. There were some dead dogs, a few cats, and a mutilated parakeet, but _only_ in locations coinciding with the sulfur. At least a few animals from the other parts of town were fine.” Sam takes a deep breath as if to steel himself. “Whatever happened here, I don’t think the demons were working alone.”

In his mind’s eye, Castiel sees the sigil he and Dean had found burned into the clearing near Azazel’s hideout. The combination of angelic and demonic spell work was already enough to raise his suspicions, but now to add evidence of someone assisting the demons in eradicating a town full of humans? There’s only one thing it can mean, and he doesn’t like it at all.

He only listens to the remainder of Dean and Sam’s conversation—meaning, Dean reprimanding Sam for spending as much of the previous day and a half in a casino as he has—with half an ear, going over the possibilities in his mind. Even factoring in this new information, it could very well be one of Castiel’s fallen brethren assisting Azazel’s cause. Equally likely, however, is the idea that any angel could be to blame—albeit, one who has turned their back on the rest of the Host in every way but that which will cause a fall from grace.

As loathe as Castiel is to admit it, there are greater odds of the latter being the case than the former. As far as he is aware, there are very few fallen angels who have not either joined the Infernal Host or lived and died a human death.

 _Anael_ , a small part of his mind whispers. _She must still be out there._

Despite their frequent inability to get along when they were fledglings and extending to well beyond puberty, Castiel had ended up forging something of a professional friendship with Anael. He had never been able to relax and open up around her nearly as much as she had with him, but serving together under Michael had brought about a forced familiarity that would have been more trouble to fight than to let happen. They were close enough that he was saddened by her decision to fall twenty-odd years previously, but he was not heartbroken by any stretch.

Still, he does not believe she would stoop so far as to work with any demons, let alone one like Azazel. Even fallen angels have a sense of divinity. Wherever Anael is in her new human life, whatever she may now look like or be calling herself—she isn’t Azazel’s secret weapon. Castiel would bet his wings on it.

Castiel drags his focus back to his mate just as Dean instructs his brother to meet them at Bobby’s as soon as possible and to call the man in question to pass along his findings. After a few more parting words, Dean flips his phone closed and drops it to the empty seat between the two of them.

Dean sighs wearily, rolling his shoulders to dispel the tension no doubt lingering there. They’ve just about reached the center of the small city nearest to the mountain by now, and Dean slows the car to pull into the mostly-empty parking lot of a fast food restaurant. Once the Impala is parked and the engine is cut, Dean doesn’t get out like Cas expects him to, but instead stares glumly down at his hands where they sit folded in his lap.

Castiel instinctively shifts closer to him on the bench seat. “Dean?” he asks carefully. “What’s wrong?”

“Just…” He takes an uneasy breath that rattles in his chest. He doesn’t meet the angel’s gaze, but Castiel can still easily see the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Fuck, Cas. This is all just _too much_. I don’t think I can handle it. I feel like I’m _drowning_ , for god’s sake.”

Castiel slides the rest of the way into Dean’s space, sliding his hand over his mate’s jaw and gently tipping his face up toward his own. “Dean. We _will_ make it through this. I swear to you, on everything in my Father’s Creation. I won’t allow anything to happen to you, or Sam, or Jess, or even Bobby. I will swear on Heaven itself, if that is what I must do to convince you.”

Despite Castiel’s best wishes, Dean’s expression only crumples further. His eyes, at least, stay fixated on Cas’ when he chokes out, “He has my _dad_.”

Castiel nods in somber agreement, lightly stroking a thumb over the angry bruise on Dean’s cheek. He had wanted to heal it earlier but lacked the opportunity, so he does it now, letting his grace seep through his fingertips and into the abused skin to accelerate the healing process. He uses his grace more loosely than he perhaps would at another time, but the excess that he channels into his mate goes toward the task of gentling Dean’s concerns and soothing the riot of his soul.

Dean shivers at the sensation of it all. His eyelids flicker as though with pleasure, and even though the thick scent of his distress permeating the Impala hardly lessens, the fact that it changes at all is good enough for Castiel.

“I know he has your father,” Cas says softly, pausing only long enough to press a soft kiss to Dean’s newly-healed cheek, “and for that I am incredibly sorry. But if there is a way to save him, we will find it. We will do everything in our power to save him. Azazel will be stopped.”

A single tear falls down Dean’s face. Castiel swipes it away with the pad of his thumb, and that is all it takes for the last bit of Dean’s walls to crumble and for him to throw himself toward the angel. He buries his face in Castiel’s neck and takes deep inhalations of the scent found there, his entire body trembling.

Castiel is patient while Dean’s grief runs its course, hugging his mate firmly to him and rubbing his hand in a circular motion across the man’s lower back. He doesn’t mind waiting for Dean to regain his composure, however long that may take. For now, Castiel focuses on maintaining an even hold on his emotions to keep his scent calming for Dean’s benefit.

Over the course of ten or so minutes, Dean steadily comes back to himself, his limbs shaking less and his breaths slowing and regulating. He shifts just enough to rest his forehead against the crook of the angel’s neck, but does not make an effort to leave the hug-like position entirely.

Several more minutes later, Dean mumbles, “It’s so fuckin’ weird that I can smell you like this.”

A small smile lifts the corners of Castiel’s mouth, and he can’t stop himself from pressing his lips into Dean’s hair in a likeness of a kiss. “I know, beloved. It will become more natural with time.”

Dean huffs, the sound somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Not sure that’s true,” he says, “but at least you smell good.” After a few more moments’ pause, he says more seriously, his voice dropped low, “I don’t even know why that dickhead having my dad hurts as much as it does. I mean, it’s not like he’s ever been a particularly _good_ parent. Any chance he ever had of _that_ died in that fire alongside my mom all those years ago. And you heard all that shit Azazel said, Cas, and all the shit my dad himself said. He’s not… He’s not a _good guy_. So why does it _hurt_?”

Castiel has to take a steadying breath before he can respond, surprised to find himself blinking back his own tears at his mate’s admission. He hugs Dean tighter to him, tangling a hand in the back of his hair as he does so. “It’s not wrong for you to feel this way,” Cas says, choosing his words carefully. “Despite everything, John is still your father, and that alone is reason enough for you to love him. And I understand it, Dean. My relationship with my own father is a complicated one; He left us many years ago, and yet even though I am often bitter about that, I am still loyal to Him. I still love Him, just as you love John.”

Dean exhales shakily and finally pushes himself away from Castiel, just enough to see the angel’s face. His eyes, Castiel notices, are still too bright with tears, but his smile is less strained than expected. “Thanks, Cas,” he says. “I’m really glad I have you.”

The words cause Castiel’s heart to flutter in his chest, and if it weren’t for the seriousness of the situation, he is fairly certain he would be outright grinning. As it is, he smiles softly at his mate, and can’t help but kiss the center of his forehead before he replies, “I’m glad you have me, too.”

A faint blush colors Dean’s face and he ducks his head, likely having reached his limit of emotional talk for the time being, as Castiel knows he is prone to do. That theory is confirmed only seconds later when Dean clears his throat and says too loudly, “And that’s enough of that.” He nods in the direction of the fast food restaurant they are parked beside—Castiel is baffled to realize that he had forgotten where they were all together—and continues, “So tell me, Cas. When was the last time you had a burger?”

Cas sends him a curious look. “Is this important right now? I was under the impression that we needed to return to Bobby’s as soon as possible.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, but ideally we need Sam and Jess to be there, too, and their drive from Vegas is longer than ours from here. We have time to spare. And Cas, you may not have realized, but I haven’t eaten in…” He picks his phone up from the seat and powers on the screen to check its clock. “Coming up on twenty-four hours, I guess. Gabe made me eat some protein bar when he was, you know, _saving your life_ this morning, but I’m totally not counting that. So I’m going to drag you into this restaurant and get myself two burgers and a milkshake _at least_ , and then I’m going to double that order, because everything I’m eating, you’re eating. You’re going to play along, you won’t complain, and maybe for just twenty minutes we can pretend to be normal goddamn people.”

For a long moment, Castiel can only stare at his mate in mild befuddlement. The concept of ‘normal people’ is far beyond the scope of his understanding, so he has no idea what Dean could mean by that. He is willing to go along with it, though, if it pleases Dean.

But, his cooperation aside, he feels the need to confess, “I’ve never had a burger.”

Dean’s eyes widen almost comically, but he looks entirely too pleased with himself now for having pitched the idea in the first place. “Well in that case,” he says with a grin, “we better head in there and introduce you, don’t you think? Because something tells me this is a _very_ good idea.”

Castiel isn’t quite convinced that that is the case, but Dean’s swing into a good mood is infectious and he has no desire to do anything but nod along and say, “Of course, Dean.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel finds he has nothing to say to that, so he remains silent. He knows that none of the platitudes he has to offer would be new to Dean, nor would they have the ability to lessen his pain. For lack of anything better to do, Cas reaches for Dean’s right hand and tangles their fingers together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! _So_ sorry for the delay this week. Writer's block is a bitch, and unfortunately there isn't much to be done for it. But hey, a one-day delay isn't _too_ bad, right?
> 
> Thanks to [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com) for being a wonderful and encouraging beta. She's the best. <3

Castiel likes burgers.

 _A lot_.

There’s just something about the thin, greasy meat, the mixture of condiments, and the other accoutrements all working together that has piqued his interest—especially the pickles, which Dean calls him _weird_ for enjoying.

Without a biological purpose for eating, Castiel is virtually unrestrained in the amount he can consume. Dean allows him to eat five burgers before he cuts him off, saying with a laugh, “We should probably leave some for the other customers, babe.”

Castiel knows his mate is teasing him more than anything, but some of the logic behind the statement sticks in his mind anyway. Unhappy about it though he is, he agrees to stop eating burgers for the time being.

Dean only has two burgers himself, just as he had said he would before they entered the restaurant. After their discussion in the car, Cas had cleaned them both of blood and demon residue with the help of his grace, at Dean’s insistence. They had then left the Impala looking—and smelling—much better than they had entered it.

Between the burgers and the vanilla milkshake Dean ordered for him, Castiel considers his first major foray into human dining to be a success.

Dean is decidedly less satisfied. “I’m not saying this kind of joint isn’t good,” he tells Cas on their way back to the car, “especially in a pinch. But once you’ve had _my_ burgers, Cas, you’ll never go back.”

Castiel smiles at him over the roof of the Impala, standing by the passenger-side door while he waits for Dean to unlock it. “Is that your way of saying you want to cook for me, Dean?” he asks teasingly.

Dean blushes lightly, but squares his shoulders and stands his ground. “Maybe it is,” he admits. “I mean, I know you don’t _need_ to eat, but after what I just saw, something tells me that that doesn’t matter.” He finally unlocks the car and they both get in.

“I would very much like to try your burgers, Dean,” Castiel says once he is seated. “Perhaps you can make them sometime after we return to Bobby’s?”

“Yeah, that might be a good idea,” Dean agrees as he starts up the car and begins their long drive to Sioux Falls. Dean is quiet for a moment, then he huffs a dry laugh and shakes his head. “Maybe I’ll make dinner to ease the news about Dad.”

Castiel finds he has nothing to say to that, so he remains silent. He knows that none of the platitudes he has to offer would be new to Dean, nor would they have the ability to lessen his pain. For lack of anything better to do, Cas reaches for Dean’s right hand and tangles their fingers together.

They don’t talk for a while after that.

~

By the time they’ve been on the road for about five hours, Castiel has recovered enough from his injuries to be feeling back to his regular self. He pulls his wings from their pocket dimension and begins stretching them as best he can within the confines of the Impala, intent on removing the stiffness that has worked its way into his bones from the prolonged concealment.

Dean, apparently, doesn’t notice what he’s doing until the upper arch of Cas’ left wing accidentally bumps the side of his head, startling him enough that the causes the car to swerve slightly in its lane. “What the hell, Cas?”

Castiel ignores him for the moment, focusing instead on rolling and loosening the main joints at his shoulder blades and at the wings’ upper arches. The relief from pressure feels wonderful, and draws a pleased sigh from the angel before he finally returns the appendages to a resting position between himself and the back of the seat. It’s not a comfortable position by any means, his wings much too large for the vehicle, but he doesn’t want to put them away just yet.

A soft smile adorns Dean’s face when he glances over at his mate, clearly having clued in to the purpose of Castiel’s actions. He moves his right hand from the Impala’s steering wheel to stroke his fingers through the mass of dark feathers laying on the leather seat beside him. “Everything okay?” he asks, casting Castiel a curious look before turning back to watch the road. “How’s your grace feeling?”

“Great,” Castiel answers, unable to withhold the small grin that accompanies the word. After the near-constant abuse his grace has suffered over the previous few days, having it buzz at full strength in his veins again is nothing short of thrilling. “In fact,” he adds, “I am more than capable of flying us the rest of the distance to Bobby’s, if you are amenable? We will likely have to stop soon anyway so that you can rest, and doing so there instead of at a motel may prove to be both more comfortable and more efficient in the long run.”

Dean is quiet for a moment as he thinks this over, his fingers still playing absently with Castiel’s feathers. Eventually, he nods and says, “You’re probably right. You sure you’re good to fly, though? I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard too soon.”

Castiel presses his wing into Dean’s hand in a gesture of reassurance, silently reveling in the way his mate automatically clutches at him in response. “I’m fine,” he promises. “I can retrieve Sam and Jess as well, if you’ll first allow me to take you to Sioux Falls.”

“Yeah, alright,” Dean concedes with a sigh. “Do you need me to stop, or—?”

Before the question is fully voiced, Castiel takes them from a stretch of moonlit highway in Ohio to being parked in front of Bobby Singer’s house in South Dakota. Vanishing away their momentum and turning off the Impala’s engine is as simple as a single flick of his grace, a measure he prides himself on thinking of once they are surrounded by the complete silence of the salvage yard.

Dean shakes his head, laughing softly to himself. “Okay, guess that’s my answer then, huh? Would it’ve killed you to use your words, Cas?”

Castiel shrugs, though a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “I was simply being efficient. Would you like me to accompany you inside, or should I go get your brother and Jess right away?”

“Nah, you can come inside first,” Dean says as he readies himself to get out of the car. “We gotta make sure Bobby knows we’re here, and I should probably call Sam to give him a heads-up before you end up flying in on something you don’t want to be flying in on, if you know what I mean.”

Castiel frowns at his mate. “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

Dean laughs, his eyes bright with amusement. “Well, here’s a hint: why would you maybe not want someone suddenly popping up on _us_ when we’re having an extended period of alone time?”

“Oh! Are you implying that they may be having sex?”                                                                                

“Honestly, I’m trying not to think about it in too much detail,” Dean replies, still smiling at the angel even while he fakes a wince, “but yeah, just… let me give them a warning. Don’t need you getting scarred for life, after all.”

“If you insist,” Castiel relents. Dean’s concern over the situation amuses him, especially considering that he cannot discern whether it is based more in protectiveness for his brother or Castiel himself. He casts the thought aside and asks, “Are you ready to go inside?”

Dean visibly hesitates, then nods as if to steel himself and says, “Yeah, let’s do this.” With that, he finally opens his door and climbs from the Impala. Castiel chooses to exit the vehicle via his wings instead of the human method that Dean used, and he stretches his wings fully in the open night air while his mate retrieves his duffle bag from the trunk.

When they knock on Bobby’s door a few minutes later, the man himself doesn’t seem overly thrilled to see them.

“Damn teleportin’ angels,” he grumbles as he steps back from the doorway to let them in, simultaneously glaring and ogling at Castiel’s still-visible wings. “I know for damn sure you didn’t drive all the way here in six hours, so would you mind tellin’ me why you decided to change your plans and show up here at this time of night?”

“Cas was itching to stretch his wings,” Dean explains too-cheerily, clapping the older man on the shoulder as he strides past him on his way into the living room. He tosses his bag onto the couch and digs his phone out of his pocket, only giving the explanation, “Calling Sam,” before turning away and doing just that.

Bobby studies Dean’s profile through narrowed eyes for a long moment, then raises an eyebrow at Castiel. “Well. Something tells me your recon mission didn’t go too well.”

Castiel almost wants to laugh at how grossly understated that is. He doesn’t, though, and without taking his eyes off of his mate’s tense form he asks somberly, “How could you tell?”

Bobby snorts, rubbing a hand across his face and readjusting his tattered cap. “I’ve known that kid for damn near his whole life,” he says, dropping his voice so as to ensure Dean does not overhear, “and of all the things I’ve learned in that time, knowing how to tell when he’s upset is one of ‘em. He’s trying to hide it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see it.”

Castiel sighs. He, too, has noticed Dean’s increased stress, it having replaced his former pleasant mood right after Castiel brought the two of them to Bobby’s. Cas knows what is causing it, of course—once they are reunited with Bobby, Sam, and Jess, the conversation will have to turn to what just happened in Virginia.

Telling Sam, Castiel suspects, will make it real for Dean.

He doesn’t verbally confirm the conclusion Bobby has reached, but he knows he doesn’t need to. Anything Castiel could possibly say to the man in this moment would only serve to be redundant.

Dean’s phone call with Sam is brief; he tells his brother that they have arrived in Sioux Falls ahead of schedule, that Cas is ready to pick him and Jess up whenever they want him to. Castiel can hear that Sam’s responding statements are equally succinct as Dean’s, and within a matter of minutes, it is decided that Sam and Jess will join them in the morning, as they’ve already gotten themselves a motel room in Utah for the night.

Dean looks remarkably calmer by the time the call ends, no doubt soothed by the extension to his timeline. In place of the stress he had been carrying, a bone-deep exhaustion is now visible in the sag of his shoulders when he turns to face the room’s two other occupants. He asks Castiel, “You good to pick Sam up in the morning, about eight?”

It’s a rather unnecessary question in the angel’s opinion, but he doesn’t do more than nod in answer. It’s good for Bobby to hear the plan, he supposes, as the older man lacks sharp enough senses to have overheard the brothers’ decision being made the moment it happened like Castiel himself did.

Once Castiel’s assistance in the matter is confirmed, Dean nods once and starts to drift toward the stairs. “I know it’s kind of late, but do you mind if I take a shower?” he asks Bobby. “I’ll be quick, in case you were planning on turning in soon—”

Bobby is quick to wave Dean onward. “Do what you need to do, boy, don’t worry ‘bout me. And then do us all a favor and get some sleep, will ya? You look like you’re just about dead on your feet.”

Dean smiles, the expression thin but genuine. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he jokes weakly. “Thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby rolls his eyes good-naturedly as Dean disappears up the staircase, calling after him, “Don’t thank me for common courtesy, idjit.”

After his mate is gone, Castiel moves to grab the forgotten duffle bag from the couch, intending to carry it upstairs so Dean has it when he needs it. Before he can follow through with that, however, Bobby stops him with a touch to his arm.

“Castiel, I need to you to be straight with me for a second,” he says, concern shining brightly across the surface of his soul when the angel meets his eyes. “I get that we’ll debrief tomorrow, but before that, I gotta know—how bad is this going to be?”

The question makes Castiel wince, his wings tightening against his back. “Our trip to Virginia was… not good.”

Bobby blows out a long breath. “Damn. Probably really saying something by angelic standards, huh?”

Castiel tips his head in agreement. “I would say it applies by anyone’s standards, but yes, even in comparison to my long history among the forces of Heaven, what we are facing now is most definitely _not good_.”

After taking a moment to process this, Bobby nods and steps back, giving the angel what he supposes was meant to be a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he goes. “Well, I guess I better start shoring up our defenses, then. And maybe restock the liquor cabinet. I don’t know if Dean’s any good at expressin’ it as often as he should, but let me just say, Castiel, I’m damn glad we have you on our side in this.”

“Dean has given me the same sentiment,” Castiel assures with a smile. “But thank you, Bobby. Truly.”

Bobby returns the expression for only a moment before clearing his throat and forcibly resuming the gruff exterior that Castiel has already grown accustomed to seeing him wear. The sight only warms Castiel’s heart further, and he does not hesitate to bid Bobby a good night when the man is the first to extend the sentiment. They part without waiting any longer, Castiel going to join his mate and Bobby presumably returning to whatever task he had been working on when Dean and Cas’ arrival interrupted.

Upstairs, Castiel finds Dean just as he is exiting the bathroom, bare but for a towel tied low around his waist. He looks even more tired than when Castiel last saw him only a few minutes ago, and yet he still has the energy to light up when he sees the angel waiting for him, bag in hand.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says softly, pecking a kiss to Cas’ cheek as he takes the duffle and carries it into his room. He quickly discards his towel and dresses himself in boxers and a loose-fitting t-shirt before crawling into bed, tugging his mate in after him.

The bed is no more comfortable for the two of them to share than it had been last time they did it—the fact that that was only two nights ago seems absurd—but neither of them care. Dean’s deep-rooted need to have Castiel near to him is abundantly clear in the way he folds himself into the angel’s bare chest, Cas having used his grace as a cheat to discard all but his own boxers when he slipped beneath the bed’s covers. Castiel only has to shift his mate a small amount to have Dean lying almost directly overtop him, the new position both comfortable and less constricted given the limitations of the small mattress.

Dean’s one adjustment is to gently fist a hand in Castiel’s feathers and pull the angel’s wings around him like a blanket.

Castiel doesn’t complain.

~

Miraculously, Dean is still asleep when it comes time for Castiel to pick Sam and Jess up the following morning. He is careful to ease out from beneath his mate’s sleeping form, and sends soothing tendrils of grace across both Dean’s mind and soul to ensure he doesn’t yet wake. Once his escape is successful, he dresses himself in dark jeans and one of Dean’s shirts emblazoned with _Led Zeppelin_ and flies from the room on silent wings.

It is easy to locate the motel Sam had specified he and Jess would be staying in during his phone call to Dean, and equally easy to pick out Jess’ soul among the building’s inhabitants. He uses her light as a beacon to direct himself to land in the center of the room she sits alone in, instinctively hiding his wings in subspace upon arrival.

Jess, perhaps understandably, jumps at the angel’s sudden appearance and even goes so far as to reach for the handgun on the table beside the bed before she recognizes that he is not a threat. She holds her hair in a partially-braided line in one hand and uses the other to jab at Castiel in accusation when she says, “Not cool, dude. Give a girl some warning.”

“I apologize,” Castiel replies, primarily aiming to appease her. Jess doesn’t seem to care about the apology’s lack of sincerity, at least, and returns to her braiding without another word. Seeing the opening for what it is, Castiel asks, “Where is Sam?”

“Went to pick up breakfast for everyone,” Jess explains, finishing off her braid by wrapping a black band around its end and beaming up at Castiel. “So hey, Cas, long time no see! How was Virginia? Better than Pioche, I hope?”

“No, unfortunately,” Castiel says grimly, though he almost regrets having to tell Jess the truth when he sees her good cheer melt away like had announced Armageddon instead of a reconnaissance mission gone south. The only other thing he has to offer is, “We will discuss it at Bobby’s.”

Jess nods. She chews lightly on her lower lip for a moment, the action the only outward sign of her concern, then asks, “What about _your_ brother? Have you heard from him?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I attempted to contact him last night, but all he would tell me was that he would meet with us at some time today, if it was feasible.”

Summarized though it may be, that is near exactly how the conversation had unfolded. Late last night, Castiel had woken from his meditation-like state to find Dean deep in a nightmare about John and Azazel, if his mumbled cries were anything to go by. After soothing him through it, Castiel had been too anxious to even attempt to return to his doze and settled on trying to open a discussion with Gabriel instead. He had refrained from doing so until then, knowing his brother was likely still occupied with Michael and wouldn’t be available to speak.

From what Castiel had gathered from the archangel’s stunted replies, he had only just finished with Michael, and it hadn’t gone as well as they may have hoped. Gabriel had then said he was following up on one more lead before returning to Earth, and there had been no communication between them since then.

Before Jess can say anything more on the subject, the door to the motel room opens and Sam strolls in, laden with several greasy bags of what can only be breakfast foods. Jess jumps up from where she had been sitting on the bed to help him with his load, and really, Castiel cannot say he is sorry for the distraction. He cannot reveal anything substantial before they return to Dean.

Sam doesn’t see Cas at first, distracted as he was by his girlfriend when he first entered the room, but when he does, an easy grin stretches across his face. “Hey, Castiel. How’re you doing? Dean said you were pretty banged up when I talked to him the other day.”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel greets in return, oddly pleased by how easy it is for him to slip into human small-talk. “I am much better than I was, though I am not surprised that Dean expressed concern on my behalf.”

“He does that,” Sam chuckles. “Although I have to say, I’m glad it’s you and not me this time. I’ve been dealing with his overprotectiveness since we were kids.”

Castiel cannot help but smile at that. Dean’s caring nature was apparent to the angel right away when they met, it having been etched into the very fabric of his soul. Even that first night they met at that club, Cas had been able to read that Dean had a brother for whom he cared very much for—even if that emotion had been strained at the time, due to Sam’s purposeful separation from Dean through his choice to leave for Stanford. Considering that memory alone, Castiel does not doubt that Dean’s overprotectiveness of his little brother is nothing new.

It’s rather endearing, really, but instead of relaying any of this to Sam—which he cannot imagine Dean would appreciate—he asks the couple, “Are you ready to go?”

“Yep,” Jess says, shifting her hold on one of the food bags she had liberated from her boyfriend and using the freed hand to sling one duffle bag over her shoulder and hold the straps of a second in her hand. “We returned the car we rented to get this far, too, so we’re all set.”

Seeing no reason to wait any longer, Castiel walks forward and lays a hand on each of their shoulders. It takes only an instant to make the return flight to Sioux Falls, and after depositing his passengers in the kitchen—and surprising Bobby into letting out a string of loud swears and nearly dropping his mug of coffee—he goes straight to Dean’s room.

Dean is still in bed, but he is very obviously awake, staring up at the ceiling in silence. His only response to Castiel’s return is to shuffle toward the far edge of the bed, making room for the angel to take his place beside him. Castiel does so without hesitation, loving the feel of his mate’s sleep-warm body against his own.

After a few moments, Dean says quietly, “It really freaked me out when I woke up and you weren’t here.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says as he scoots in a bit closer, carefully inhaling Dean’s steady scent. It’s calm now, almost forcibly so, but there is an unmistakable trace of old fear beneath that, lingering on Dean’s skin. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Dean sighs, twisting to press his face into the angel’s shoulder. Castiel automatically curls a hand up around Dean’s body to rub at his back, listening intently when his mate mumbles into his shirt, “All night. The last one was the worst, though. I, uh. I watched you die. In the dream, Gabriel didn’t show up after that Meg bitch stabbed you, and, well.” He shakes his head, the motion rubbed into Castiel’s skin. “Fuck, with everything else that happened yesterday, I almost forgot about that all together.”

In a quick burst of motion, Castiel hooks one of his legs through Dean’s and uses the leverage it grants him to flip Dean onto his back, Cas himself propped above him. Dean’s eyes widen in surprise, but Castiel dives in to capture his lips with his own before he can properly respond.

Castiel gives as much as he can into the kiss, cradling his mate’s face in the palm of his hand and teasing along the seam of his lips with his tongue until they part and grant him access to the warmth that lies behind them. Dean’s reciprocation is just as passionate, and when he attempts to draw Castiel in between his legs, bucking his hips in search of much-needed friction, Castiel is too far beyond himself to even try to think of a reason to deny him.

The knock on the bedroom door, however, proves more than reason enough.

“Hey guys, breakfast is getting cold,” Sam calls through the thin panel of wood. “And I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but the rest of us kind of want to get this debriefing thing over with, so any time would be great.” A series of heavy footsteps mark his retreat down the hall a few seconds later.

Castiel pulls off of his mate’s mouth with a growl, his inner alpha suddenly irrationally furious at having been disrupted. Dean looks equally displeased, gorgeous and wanton where he pouts up at Castiel. His eyes, the angel notes, are even more beautiful than usual, threaded with thin tendrils of omega gold in a way that his transformation into angelhood had yet to accomplish until now. Castiel knows that his own eyes are red in return, and for a long moment, their complimentary gazes are locked together, an unnamable tension rising between them until it feels like Castiel’s entire being is going to implode.

Dean laughs, and just like that, the spell is broken and the gold retreats from his eyes. “Fucking Sam,” he grumbles, the words a mixture of amusement and honest annoyance. “I swear to god, that kid is like a professionally-trained _cockblock_. His timing is always the goddamn _worst_.”

Castiel chuckles, the final vestiges of his arousal slipping away. “Yes, his timing was rather unfortunate. Although we _do_ need to speak with them, so perhaps it’s for the best.” He leans in and rests his forehead against Dean’s, making sure those green eyes are completely focused on him before going back to their earlier conversation. “I am sorry about the nightmares. I did what I could to make them easier on you throughout the night, but leaving you asleep when I went to get Sam and Jess may not have been the best idea. If it is any consolation though, Dean, I can assure you that I am _not_ dead, nor do I plan on being any time soon.”

“That helps,” Dean confirms with a smile. “Thanks, Cas.”

“Of course, Dean. Are you ready to get up now?”

“Yeah.” He taps a hand against Cas’ side to indicate for the angel to move, then slips out from beneath him and goes to retrieve a change of clothes from his bag. Once he has swapped his sleep clothes for his more typical jean-and-flannel combination, he casts one final look at his mate, then rolls his shoulders and strides from the room.

Castiel follows him down to the kitchen, where the other members of their group sit gathered around the table in anticipation. Dean ignores them all at first, focusing on clearing himself a chair to sit in—the only ones not already occupied being covered in stacks of books—and digging into a cheap breakfast burrito from one of Sam’s bags. Castiel chooses to lean against the wall beside him, having no desire of his own to sit.

Sam watches his brother warily for a moment, and when it becomes clear to him that Dean has no intention of taking the lead in their ‘debriefing’, he launches into a recap of his and Jess’ discoveries in Nevada. Dean and Castiel have already heard all about it over the phone, from the confirmation of the missing people to the evidence of someone working with the demons in their schemes. Bobby, too, seems to have already heard most of it, but he still engages the couple as they tell their tale, asking clarifying questions and even keeping a page of notes on the key pieces of information.

The nearer Sam and Jess’ story gets to its end, the more nervous Dean becomes until finally, he gets up from his chair and walks straight out of the kitchen without a backwards glance.

Jess, who had been talking about the difficulties she and Sam had faced in procuring a rental car to get out of Nevada, trails off when he leaves, frowning at Sam and then at Cas. “What..?”

Castiel considers going after his mate, but before he can, Dean strides back into the room. He has the Colt in one hand and the demon-killing knife they had taken from Tom in the other, and he slams them both down onto the surface of the table.

“Alright, I’m going to give you the quick version of what sort of hell we went through, you got that?” Dean says, making eye contact with Sam, Jess, and Bobby in turn, as if daring any of them to ask for more. When no opposition comes, he does exactly as promised and tells a greatly summarized version of Meg’s ambush in Indianapolis, and the sigil they found at Ash’s coordinates. He takes his phone from his pocket at this point and shows the evidence in the photos he had taken of it.

Dean hesitates before continuing with his recount, casting a desperate look at Castiel. The angel nods once in encouragement.

Bobby watches the exchange carefully, seeming to know that this is where their story takes a turn for the worse. He asks softly, “What happened next, son?”

Dean takes a deep breath. “We found Dad. Azazel’s possessing him.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel takes a calculated step forward, subtly getting into a position that will allow him to protect Dean and the others from Sam, should it become necessary. He does not think it will become necessary, but alongside all of the other secrets they have recently unveiled about the younger Winchester, it is better to be unnecessarily prepared than regretful later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, you guys ready for this shit?
> 
> Hold onto your butts.
> 
>    
> And as always, thanks to my amazing beta, [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com)! She's absolutely phenomenal.
> 
>  **Update Dec. 7:** To anyone who sees this, there will **_not_** be a new chapter this week (week of December 7th). Sorry for not giving notice sooner, but apparently it's finals week? Don't know how that happened. Anyway, standard updating schedule should resume next Monday and not have any more hiccups for a while after that. Thanks for your patience.  <3

Sam immediately stands from the table, doing so with enough force that his chair skitters back a few feet and falls with a crash that sounds much too loud in the sudden silence of the kitchen.

Dean just stares at the table. Waits.

After a long moment, Sam says, his limbs trembling as much as his voice, “That’s not possible.”

Dean closes his eyes. “Hate to break it to you, but it is. Cas and I saw him, Sam, we _talked_ to him.”

“Bullshit!” Sam shouts, staggering a few steps toward his brother, his eyes pleading. “It wasn’t him, it couldn’t have been him! Azazel was… He was…” He stumbles for a second, his expression crumpling under the weight of his own thought processes. He shakes his head and surges on, “Azazel’s powerful enough that he probably could have made it look like he was _anyone_ , isn’t that right, Cas? There must be a spell, or—or something. It was just a trick. There’s no way that Dad would have let himself get caught, there’s no way that he’s _gone_.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Castiel says from his place by the wall behind Dean, “but it was your father. The right spell work could alter his appearance, you are correct, but there is no guise strong enough to fool an angel of any level in that way. The soul I saw was undoubtedly that of John Winchester.”

Sam’s face contorts with a mixture of rage and misery, prompting Jess to reach a hand out to attempt to comfort him. She touches her fingers to the back of his wrist, almost but not quite holding onto him. “Sam, honey, I think you need to calm down. You’re being irrational.”

“Irrational?” Sam repeats, a flash of hurt darting across his face amidst the fury and terror as he rips his arm away from her grasp. “I’m not being _irrational_ , Jess, it’s my dad! And I know for a fact that we’re missing something here, okay? This just isn’t _right_ , and I know it. I know he isn’t gone!”

Bobby gets to his feet, his motions slower and steadier than may have been warranted given his surrogate son’s outrage. Just as calmly, he asks, “What makes you so sure, Sam? Even hunters like John slip up at some point or another. Even I’ve gotten into a few bad scrapes over the years. It happens.”

Before Sam has a chance to reply, Dean finally looks up and says, “It doesn’t matter. Sam, I’m sorry you don’t agree, but this is happening, alright? I need you to cut this shit out so that—”

“Dean,” Sam interjects, “I need you to trust me—”

“Damn it, Sam, this isn’t about trust! I get that your Spidey-senses are tingling or whatever the fuck, but I need _you_ to trust _me_ on this one—”

“My visions haven’t been wrong yet, Dean!”

The speed with which silence returns to the kitchen is astonishing. The fight immediately goes out of Dean and he blinks at his brother in confusion, that emotion echoed in Bobby and Jess.

Sam himself, meanwhile, pales and begins to flounder. “I—I mean, I… Um.”

Castiel takes a calculated step forward, subtly getting into a position that will allow him to protect Dean and the others from Sam, should it become necessary. He does not think it _will_ become necessary, but alongside all of the other secrets they have recently unveiled about the younger Winchester, it is better to be unnecessarily prepared than regretful later. “You have had visions?”

Sam eyes Castiel with all of the caution a defenseless animal may view a predator with, and seems to come to the (correct) conclusion that the angel is not to be lied to in this moment. He swallows hard, and keeps his answer contained to a simple, “Yes.”

At Castiel’s side, Dean tenses. Everything from his body language to the bitter turn in his scent implies that he plans on jumping into the conversation, but Cas prevents it with a raised palm, never taking his eyes from Sam. Important though Dean may be in this, now is not the time for his interference. Castiel asks next, “When was the first vision, and what was its content?”

Sam’s gaze flickers briefly toward Jess, so quickly that Castiel only noticed because of how closely he was scrutinizing the man’s behavior as a whole, every detail down to his heartbeat being monitored. Castiel has a sneaking suspicion of what that look meant, but he cannot be sure until he receives his answer.

“It, um. It started a while ago,” Sam says quietly, eyes downcast. “Six months, maybe.”

Castiel accepts the information with a nod. He doesn’t miss the fact that the latter half of his question was ignored, and seeing as it’s just as important as the establishing of a timeline, he prompts again, “And the content?”

Sam’s shoulders sag even more than they already were in his body’s attempt to fold in on itself, as if he could disappear from sight entirely with enough effort. He remains silent.

Nothing good, then, Castiel deduces.

He takes another step toward Sam, this time in what he hopes is seen as a gesture of support and good-will. Sam does look up, at least, but the vacant hopelessness that pervades the entirety of his being makes Castiel ache. He tries one last time, softer, “Please, Sam. I need to know.”

Sam’s defenses finally crumble. His voice is scarcely more than a whisper when he replies, “I saw Jess. I saw her dying at the hands of a group of demons.”

Somewhere, Jess sucks in a sharp breath, but Castiel cannot be bothered to register any more than that. Sam requires his complete and undivided focus.

“You saw Jess die,” he repeats slowly, thinking the words through as they leave his tongue. When he can’t find a way to make the facts line up, he frowns. “You said your visions haven’t been wrong, and yet they must have been. She clearly is not dead.”

“No, I know,” Sam says, nodding emphatically. Emotions beyond the range of sorrow return to his expression as he prepares to extrapolate, a feverish sort of excitement shining in his eyes at the opportunity to explain himself and be heard. “The thing is, I was seeing the demons arrive at our apartment and attack her, but I never saw _you_ get there to save her. I guess whatever I was seeing kind of just… cut off before then? But I always thought of it as the demons killing her because I didn’t see the end, and I wrote it off as a recurring nightmare, anyway. I didn’t realize it _wasn’t_ until after it had actually happened.”

A few more pieces of information click together in Castiel’s mind, and he cannot help but verbalize the realization. “You activated the sigil against me not just because I was unknown and may have been a threat, but because the scene as a whole fed upon what was, quite literally, your worst nightmare.”

Sam grimaces at the reminder, but nods his affirmation. “I said I was sorry about that,” he reiterates.

“And I accepted your apology,” Castiel retorts. “I do not mean to imply that I am any more upset by the event, only that I understand now that there were other psychological elements at play. Regardless, it is hardly important at the moment. Can you tell me about any other visions you have had, whether they have been fulfilled or otherwise?”

Sam is quiet as he thinks over the request, his posture growing more relaxed with every passing moment. It stems, Castiel suspects, from the growing understanding that he is not about to be shouted down or thrown out for having this unusual ability. His self-esteem is clearly no better off than his brother’s.

Castiel isn’t quite sure how he feels about that.

“I’ve had three,” Sam eventually says, redrawing the angel’s attention to the matter at hand. “The first was the demons at the apartment with Jess—that was the only one that was recurring. The second was a single dream I had, about us tracking Azazel, of all things. _That one_ I thought was just a bout of déjà vu or something when it first happened, since all I really saw was the map that was marked with Ash’s findings, but the more I thought about it…” He shrugs. “It wasn’t very significant, but I knew Nevada was important in some way. And that’s all the third vision was: a thing from the Nevada trip. I knew ahead of time that I needed to look into the thing about the pets, about some of them getting away.”

“But there was another one,” Bobby interrupts, the first time he has spoken since Sam’s reveal. “You were spoutin’ on about John a few minutes ago. What did you see about him?”

Sam sighs, his gaze now shifting between each member of the group before settling back on Castiel, as if he believes the angel to be the least judgmental recipient of this information. “I saw myself sitting in a diner with Dad. We didn’t have any food or anything, but we were just sat in a booth and talking. He needed my help with something, he said. That’s all I saw.”

“I don’t think that was John, boy,” Bobby replies, not unkindly. “Not if Azazel’s wearing him to the prom.”

Sam shakes his head fervently. “It was Dad. I _know_ it was Dad. I can’t explain how I know, but I do.”

“Sam, you realize that was just Azazel fucking with you, right?” Dean demands, moving to place himself even with his mate as if it will help him to better make his point. “He’s full-on Voldemorting you, putting traps in your head because now he’s laid the groundwork and knows you’ll believe it. If this is really happening, you’d be stupid not to see it.”

Whatever that reference was, it goes right over Castiel’s head. It brings Sam up short, however. The fight leaves him all at once and he blinks at his brother, mouth agape. “Did you just… make a Harry Potter reference?”

For some reason, that makes Dean blush. “Shut up, Sammy, that’s totally irrelevant. My point stands. Were you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, it might not be a bad connection to draw,” Sam says quickly, a grin stretching across his face despite the severity of the implication. “But _Dean_ , you read _Harry Potter_! That was book five, too, right? Have you read book six? Oh my god, please tell me you’ve read book six.”

“I’ve read book six,” Dean concedes with a roll of his eyes. The heat in his cheeks hasn’t abated in the slightest. “You’re such a goddamn _nerd_ , this is why I didn’t tell you. It’s not a big deal, alright?”

Sam shrugs, clearly not agreeing with that particular statement. “Doesn’t matter what you say, I’m still counting this as a victory.”

Dean just shakes his head, but his lips finally lift with a smile.

Jess, the only person still seated at the table, laughs somewhat hysterically, wide-eyed. “You two will never cease to amaze me,” she says, glancing between the brothers. “Shouting and practically ready to punch each other one minute, geeking out over Harry Potter the next. What _the hell_.” She sends Castiel a look of fond amusement. “These are the men we’ve chosen.”

“Indeed,” Castiel replies with equal fondness. Both of the men in question appear rather embarrassed by the sudden teaming up of their significant others. Cas, gracious as he is, chooses not to allow them to be tormented further, pulling the conversation back from its tangent. “Sam, you understand that these visions you are experiencing are almost definitely the result of the demon blood in your system, correct? That at the heart of it, it _is_ Azazel’s doing?”

“I know. That’s the same conclusion I reached,” Sam sighs. After the brief interlude with Dean, he seems much more at-ease discussing his visions. The whole room, in fact, feels far less likely to suffer a snap from tension. “It hasn’t been a bad thing yet, though. I mean, right? This isn’t… This isn’t a _problem_ , is it? Like, you’re not going to put me on house arrest, or just throw me out?”

Castiel frowns. “No. Is that what you expected, to be treated as a problem?” When Sam’s only response is to stare at the floor, he continues, “This may not necessarily be a good thing, Sam, but neither is it so bad as to warrant abandoning you. My only suggestion to further ensure your safety would be that you avoid going out by yourself, and perhaps even to stay clear of diners for the time being. It is entirely possible that the scene you witnessed comes from a time after John Winchester is freed from Azazel’s possession, however distant in the future that may be. But until that can be confirmed, we must be careful. Azazel directly told us that he is targeting you, and your life is not something to be risked.”

Sam finally looks up and meets Castiel’s eyes, and where there had so recently been only despair is now a touch of hope, which is quickly taking root. “Thank you, Castiel,” he says, quiet yet earnest. “Really. You have no idea how much I appreciate your support in this.”

Castiel smiles, replying easily, “There is no need for you to thank me, Sam. I do for you as I would for any other member of my family.”

A long second passes in silence, long enough for Castiel to begin to fear that it was not appropriate to call himself Sam’s family, not when he has only known him for a small number of days. Through his bond with Dean, however, there is no better word in Castiel’s mind for any of them—even if human societal norms do not allow for the understanding or reciprocation of that idea.

Before Castiel’s doubts can settle in too deep, there is a blur of movement, and the next thing the angel knows, he is wrapped in a bone-crushing hug. Sam’s arms are tight around him, and Castiel has no choice but to remember how _tall_ the younger Winchester is, taller than his brother, even, and looming several inches above Cas. Slowly, feeling unsure of his actions, Castiel brings his own arms up around Sam to return the hug.

Elsewhere in the room, there is a soft rustle of wings. “Aw, this is so sweet! What’s with the touchy-feely, guys, what’d I miss?”

Sam pulls away from Castiel and glances over his head at Gabriel, where the archangel just landed in the entryway to the kitchen. When he looks back to Castiel a moment later, it is easy for the angel to decipher the new wave of uncertainty in the man’s face.

Castiel’s acceptance has been established. Gabriel’s has not.

Castiel turns to face his brother and says, “I will tell you later, Gabriel, as we have already discussed it at length. It is not pressing at the moment.”

A small crease forms between Gabe’s eyebrows as he stares between Castiel and Sam, no doubt noticing how uncomfortable the latter seems to be in the archangel’s presence. He asks Cas privately, **_Is everything okay?_**

 ** _He revealed a repercussion of his demonic taint_** , Castiel explains. **_As I said, we can talk more about it later. I promised him my support and assistance, but right now, I think it best not to overwhelm him._**

For a moment it seems as though Gabriel is about to argue that point, but he nods his acceptance instead. “Later, then. I take it I missed the rest of your conversations, too, about your field trips? Any chance you’d be willing to fill me in on _that_ , at least?”

Without being asked, Jess takes the lead in the discussion, quickly giving Gabriel all of the necessary information she and Sam discovered in Pioche, Nevada. Sam adds in a few details he deems important every so often, but it still takes less than five minutes of concise storytelling to relay the bulk of their findings to the archangel.

When Sam and Jess fall silent, Gabe’s face is hard and unreadable. If Castiel were to guess, he would say that the almost undeniable evidence that the demons are not working alone is to blame for the expression. With that in mind, he almost doesn’t want to tell his brother what he and Dean encountered, as it will only make his expression darken further.

Still, Cas launches into a retelling of their trip without waiting to be prompted, starting from the moment Gabriel left him and Dean in the warehouse after the encounter with Meg. He spends a great deal more time explaining the intricacies of the charred sigil than Dean had when telling the other humans, although he does also show Gabriel Dean’s photographs of the mark. After that, Dean helps him to recount the important events from the cave, with Tom, Azazel, and John.

As with their telling to Bobby, Jess, and Sam, they explain the condition that they found John in, as well as the fact that they had a brief chance to speak with him before Azazel resurfaced and took over the man’s consciousness. By unspoken agreement, they gloss over the specifics of what it was they spoke with John _about_. The memory of the man’s scorn weighs heavily on them both, if for different reasons.

In the end, Gabriel is no more pleased by the findings in Virginia than he had been the findings in Nevada. In fact, he begins to pace the moment Dean and Castiel’s story concludes. He walks the length of the kitchen a few times, every inch of him tense and twitching, before he suddenly stops in his tracks and looks at the room’s other occupants, growling under his breath. “You mind?”

The question confuses the humans, Sam even going so far as to ask in return, “Mind what?” Castiel, on the other hand, can read his brother well enough to know what he means, even if he isn’t taking the time to fully explain himself. Castiel also knows that the correct answer is, “It’s fine, Gabriel. They won’t mind.”

Gabriel nods once, and when he continues his pacing, a pair of large golden wings follow after him. The bright feathers shine even in the relatively poor lighting of Bobby’s kitchen, making a spectacle without even trying. They twitch and flutter with Gabriel’s agitation, which is what Castiel knew his brother needed the appendages corporeal for. It helps to channel that energy, as opposed to keeping it bottled up.

“Holy shit,” Jess breathes out, eyes locked on the archangel’s wings just like Bobby, Sam, and Dean’s.

The latter’s gaze, Castiel is pleased to note, is far less awe-filled than the rest of the group’s. Cas knows his own wings are far different from his brother’s, on the exact opposite end of the spectrum. But while that was historically something he’s self-conscious about in the presence of new people, the sight of the small frown on his mate’s face helps to dispel his unease.

“He’s so… flashy,” Dean whispers to Castiel, too busy tracking Gabriel’s movements to notice that he already had the angel’s full attention. His eyes flicker to meet Cas’, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Your wings are much cooler. Black is sexy.”

Castiel smiles in return, warmth flooding his chest. Gabriel, meanwhile, puts an immediate stop to his pacing and casts them both a look of faux disgust. “Oh Dad, you two are _ridiculous_. You’re so sickeningly sweet it’s going to give me cavities, and you _know_ that’s saying something coming from _me_ , Cassie.”

Dean’s face heats with a blush, but he rolls his eyes, not giving Castiel his own chance to respond. “Yeah, fuck off. What’s your damage, anyway? You got something you want to share with the class, or are you planning on pacing all your problems away?”

Now it’s Gabe’s turn to roll his eyes. Thankfully, he doesn’t resume his pacing, and instead finally looks ready to talk. “Your fun chat with Azazel aside, everything your little excursions uncovered points to the fact that the demons have outside help, and that that outside help has Heavenly knowledge, right?” Gabriel says this to the group at large, but when he continues, his focus is primarily directed toward Castiel. “Zachariah was a skeezy son of a bitch, as per usual, and by the time I got past him, it was hardly worth my effort. Mikey didn’t know shit. He’d only vaguely heard about the last uprising the demons kicked up, and he damn sure didn’t know about anything Azazel could currently be involved in.”

“Was he lying?” Jess interrupts. “I mean he could have been, right? Maybe he’s guilty, or protecting someone who is?”

Gabriel shakes his head. “Not possible. It’s one of Dad’s less-understood built-in features, but archangels can’t lie to each other. It physically can’t be done. We can skirt certain truths and give half-ass answers, sure, but having been dealing with this since the literal dawn of time itself, I know how to interrogate my brother. Trust me, Mike is a dead end.”

“If Michael truly doesn’t know,” Castiel says, a theory taking form as he speaks, “that would imply that someone is purposefully keeping him in the dark. I know the workings of Michael’s division down to every last detail, and as such I know something of this magnitude should have reached him by now. It didn’t reach _me_ either, which may be equally concerning, considering I was only a few steps below him prior to my transfer.”

Gabriel goes still. “Cas. Why were you transferred to my division? What were _you_ told?”

Castiel frowns, thinking back to the conversation scarcely more than a week ago during which he had first been informed of his move in position among the Host. The meeting with Michael had come as a complete surprise, especially since Castiel had no reason to expect a transfer, promotion or otherwise. “Michael said that I had earned the right to a promotion, but that he didn’t have a place for me within his division,” he informs Gabriel. “He gave me to you as opposed to Raphael due to the close relationship he knows we have.”

Gabriel shakes his head, suddenly looking angry. One of his wings twitches rather violently. “That’s not what he told me when he asked if he could transfer you. The story _I_ got was that he needed to ‘refresh his management’ or some shit. Of course I wasn’t going to question it, since you’re the only seraph I’ve ever _requested_ be transferred to my division.” He looks away for a moment, frowning hard. After a beat of tense silence, he asks Cas, “Was anyone else present during your final meeting with Michael?”

Castiel replies without hesitation, “Zachariah.”

“And who would have been brought up to fill your position?”

“Uriel.”

“Motherfucker!” Gabriel shouts, causing no less than two of the room’s lightbulbs to burst in their sockets. His wings are half-spread in a fighting position as he resumes his earlier pacing, only now the anxious movement is accompanied by a continuous growl from low in his chest, with bright, alpha-red eyes to match his ire. It’s easy to see that Bobby, Sam, and Jess are unsettled by his overt display of emotion and the change in his eyes, but there is nothing to be done for that at the moment. “We’ve been played, Cas, don’t you see? Those dicks must have made sure you got transferred away from Michael because they knew you wouldn’t work with them. And then in the process, they fucked Michael over by sending away his best seraph, and they used you as a distraction to fuck _me_ over, getting me out of the picture all together… I’d bet my wings that that dickbag Zachariah is involved, and Uriel, too.” He pauses briefly and frowns at Castiel. “Wasn’t Uriel one of the asshats that—”

“Yes,” Cas interrupts quickly. He doesn’t need to hear the end of his brother’s question to know the general idea behind it. When they were fledglings, and even in the many years since then, Uriel acted as one of Castiel’s primary antagonists. Dean would call him a bully. “Uriel and I have never been friendly toward one another, in much the same capacity that I do not get along overly-well with Zachariah. Despite my personal feelings about each of them, however, I believe it is more than feasible that the two may be in league. Your conclusion seems to be a sound one.”

Gabriel nods, his face twisted in a scowl. The red, at least, has gone from his eyes. “That’s what I thought. And if Zachariah and Uriel are working together at the top of Michael’s division, there’s no telling just how many others there are beneath them. If Mike’s being kept in the dark…”

“Could they be staging a coup?” Dean asks, stepping forward to ensure both of the angels are listening to him. “If the two assholes you’re talking about rank directly under Michael, and if they really are the ones working with the demons, that would probably give them the power and connections to make it happen. And I can’t imagine the demons would object to helping them if it meant at least one archangel was out of the way.”

“It would be all three of us,” Gabriel corrects, “it would have to be. Mike’s always got a stick up his ass and Raph’s just a dick, but the three of us have each other’s wings. Someone goes after Mikey, they can bet their ass that Raph and I will hunt them down. You might very well be right, Dean-o,” he says, nodding in Dean’s direction, “but if it’s a coup, that would mean they would have to have a plan in place to axe each of us. As far as I know, the only out-of-the-ordinary occurrence in any of my garrisons has been Cassie’s transfer, and we’ve already figured out what that was about.”

“So maybe not a coup, then,” Bobby says. He scrubs a palm across his face, adjusting his hat in the same movement. “I may not know a lot about angel politics, but by human standards, I don’t know how many other explanations there could be. It might be best to keep the fact that you know something under wraps for now, though. Wouldn’t want the wrong people finding out that you’re onto ‘em.”

“I agree,” Gabe says. Some of the tension drains from his wings and he folds them loosely against his back, pulling a candy bar out of thin air and shoving half of it angrily into his mouth at the same time. He chews for a moment in silence, glaring at nothing in particular, then swallows and locks his eyes on his brother. “Castiel, in the event that you encounter any of our other brethren, you are not to discuss any of what we have spoken of today, in any capacity. Not without my explicit permission. That is a direct order.”

Castiel tips his head. “I understand.”

“Good.” He turns then to look at each of the humans. “As for the rest of you, I trust that you’re smart enough to follow the same rule. We need complete lockdown on this, you got me? Even if Zachariah and Uriel aren’t the ones we need to worry about, we can’t risk anyone finding out that we know something’s up. Don’t tell your friends, don’t tell other hunters—nada.”

“Sure,” Sam agrees, at the same time that Dean says, “We’ve already recruited Ash.”

Gabriel waves his hand. “That’s fine, he seems reliable enough. Although at some point, someone will have to let him know just how serious this is.”

Bobby sighs. “I’ll call him later, fill him in.”

“Perfect.” Gabriel finishes eating his candy bar, the wrapper dissolving from existence the moment it leaves his fingers. Once he is finished, he claps his hands dramatically and rubs his palms together. “Well, guys and gals, I hope you’re ready for a war, because we have officially found ourselves in the middle of one.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby suddenly takes a step toward the table, reaching to pick up the Colt before Gabriel has the chance. He turns it over in his hands, inspecting it from every angle with wide, reverent eyes. “I’ll be damned. _This_ is the Colt? I’ve heard legends about this thing, but for some reason I always expected it to be… Well. Not this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!
> 
> First off, _so_ sorry about the lack of an update last week. Finals week snuck up on me, and so I didn't have the time to give this chapter all of the focus it deserved. Essays are a bitch.
> 
> ANYWAY. Sorry again for the delay, but here's chapter 17. Enjoy.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  
> 
> Also, shameless self-advertisement, check out my [12 Days of Christmas](http://archiveofourown.org/series/369278) series! New fic added every day, now through Christmas!

Although technically their status of being in the middle of a war is the same now as it was before Gabriel’s proclamation, having it officially stated is daunting, to say the least. Castiel may be a warrior of Heaven, but even he has not been involved in an actual _war_ since around the time that the bible was being written.

Despite the fact that all four humans are very obviously concerned by the idea of a full-scale war between Heaven and Hell, Gabriel seems more than willing to let the subject rest for the time being. He is surprisingly relaxed as he glances around at the kitchen’s occupants, though what may be going through his mind is anyone’s guess. When his eyes fall on the weapons previously deposited on the table, his expression brightens and he saunters forward to inspect them. “Well _hello_ , what have we here?”

“Dean and I took those from the demons we encountered,” Castiel explains, grateful for the easy transition into a new topic of discussion. “The gun is the famed work of Samuel Colt, which I believe you are familiar with, and the knife is of unknown origins. The knife has the ability to kill demons at the very least, but I am unsure if that extends to other creatures as the Colt does.”

Bobby suddenly takes a step toward the table, reaching to pick up the Colt before Gabriel has the chance. He turns it over in his hands, inspecting it from every angle with wide, reverent eyes. “I’ll be damned. _This_ is the Colt? I’ve heard legends about this thing, but for some reason I always expected it to be… Well. Not this.”

Gabe snorts. “What else would it be? It’s from the nineteenth century, it’s not like old Samuel had the luxury of assault rifles.”

Bobby ignores Gabriel completely, still looking at the gun in his hands. After a moment, a thought seems to occur to him, bringing with it a frown. “Last I heard, Daniel Elkins had had this gun. Guess now I know that the rumor about his death is true, then.”

Jess makes a small sound in the back of her throat, not unlike a whine. “Elkins died?”

Bobby stills for a fraction of a second, then slowly puts the gun back on the table. “That had been the rumor on the grapevine, yeah. Couple a’ buddies of his went by his cabin, found the place ransacked. No sign of a body, but apparently there was enough blood that they didn’t think they needed one.” When Jess blanches further, Bobby rubs a hand across the back of his neck, a nervous habit that Castiel recognizes from Dean. “Sorry. Did you know him?”

Jess’ eyes are glassy where they’re locked on the kitchen table, and she nods absently. “Old friend of the Campbells’.”

Sam drops into a seat next to her and drapes his arm across her shoulders, encouraging her to curl into his chest while she gets a grip on her emotions. He presses his lips into Jess’ hair in a further show of support, holding her body close to his own.

“The Campbells?” Bobby repeats incredulously, looking to Dean for explanation. “Not as in…”

“That’s the going theory,” Dean confirms with a shrug. “Jess’ step-mom is a Campbell. Apparently everyone in the family is a hunter. Could be a different family, but with the way Mom went out… You ever heard of the Campbells?”

Bobby shakes his head, his mouth turned down in a frown. “Not that I’m aware of. If there’s a whole clan of ‘em, though, they could easily have their own connections in place without being a part of the rest of the hunter network.”

“Might be worth asking Ellen at some point,” Sam suggests. One of his hands is repeatedly combing through Jess’ hair, but the woman herself already appears to be remarkably more collected than she had been just a moment ago. “The Roadhouse does have a different range of contacts than you do, Bobby.”

“Yeah, Ellen might know,” Bobby agrees.

Jess suddenly snorts against Sam’s chest, then pushes herself to be sit upright. “Guys, you know if you want info on the Campbells, all we have to do is open up the contacts on my cell phone, right? I’m sure Cindy knows whether or not Mary Campbell was related to her.”

Dean waves her off. “It’s not a big deal right now. We have enough other shit to deal with. But thanks, Jess.”

Jess smiles thinly. “No problem, Dean.”

Bobby has since gone back to examining the Colt, and he slides the central cylinder open with a smooth _click_ of metal on metal. “Huh. Three rounds,” he observes, dropping one of them into the palm of his hand. “You didn’t happen to grab a few more off of your demon pal, did you, Dean?”

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Bobby, kill-or-be-killed situation, just saw Cas get shot, I _totally_ took the time to check for _spare ammo_. Because that was _so_ important.”

Castiel blinks over at Dean in surprise. The bitterness in his tone seems to have come from nowhere, and it is only echoed in his scent. There’s an underlying hint of something else, too, so Castiel steps in closer in hopes of identifying it.

Dean whips his head around to glare at Cas, though the heat behind the look falters and drains away almost instantly. He pulls together what shreds of irritation remain to demand, “What?”

Castiel bares his palms toward his mate and takes another half-step so that they are nearly touching, hoping to calm Dean further by allowing him easier access to Castiel’s own scent. It seems to have at least some of the desired effect on Dean, as he takes a deep breath, and then another. His shoulders slump and his scent steadies, and he sways automatically into the angel’s space.

Sam clears his throat. “Um… Dean? Are you alright, man?”

Dean is slow to meet his brother’s gaze, and when he does, he looks genuinely affronted at having been asked such a question in the first place. “Don’t be a bitch, Sam, I’m fine.” He huffs a bit and adds, “Sorry, Bobby.”

Bobby watches Dean closely for a long moment, then sighs and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, son. We’re all under a lot of stress, I don’t blame you for gettin’ a little snippy.”

Dean only responds with a sharp nod.

“Okay…” Gabriel says slowly, his attention also directed toward Dean, although in a less obvious manner. He follows Bobby’s lead in shaking it off, though he seems less willing to do so. “In terms of the Colt’s bullets, Bobby, Azazel’s goons may not have had any more of them than were already in the chamber. Samuel Colt only made thirteen of them when he made the gun. I’m sure you can tell just by looking at that one in your hand that it isn’t a _normal_ bullet.”

“No, it isn’t.” Bobby rolls the bullet between his fingertips, rubbing the pad of his thumb across some of the small, intricate sigils carved into its base. “What’re they made of, anyway? Silver?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Only in part. The primary material is much less common.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow, and Gabriel picks up with the explanation. “Every angel has their own personal blade, made of a solidified version of their grace.” To demonstrate, Gabriel twirls his wrist and pulls his blade into being in the palm of his hand. The silver-like material shines under Bobby’s kitchen lights almost as impressively as Gabe’s wings do. He sends the weapon away again with another twist of his wrist before continuing. “Back in the day, Colt got his hands on the blade of a dead angel—Nehemiah, by the looks of it—melted it down, mixed in some silver and other special ingredients, and boom. Magic bullets for the magic gun. That’s why it works on angels and demons.”

“So in theory,” Jess says, “we could make more of them? There’s gotta be other angel blades we could get our hands on to repeat the process?”

The thought alone makes Castiel wince. He answers quietly, “Dead angels are not something we want to actively seek out.”

Gabriel looks equally displeased by the idea, which Castiel finds unsurprising. “Yeah, no. And we damn sure aren’t using blades from live angels, either. I can see what strings I can pull to find us an alternative, though.”

Jess seems almost disappointed by the angels’ mutual reaction to her pitch, but thankfully, she doesn’t press the matter further.

Castiel doesn’t know what he would have done if she had. The idea of any of his brethren dying makes him feel sick, and the memories of all those who died in the past are shrouded in mourning even now.

“Alright, let’s move on,” Gabe says loudly, clapping his hands together to emphasize his words. He picks the knife up from where it still sits on the table and holds it loosely between his hands, inspecting the marks carved into the side of the blade. At some point during the last few seconds he materialized a lollipop, and the paper stick now flicks from one side of his mouth to the other as he sucks on the candy part. “Castiel, tell me about this knife. You said it kills demons? Did you test that yourself?”

“Technically Dean did, but yes,” Castiel replies. He trades the sense of melancholy Jess’ question had brought him for the professionalism he knows from his work with Michael, standing a bit straighter and folding his hands behind his back. It’s easy to slip into the familiar routine of a subordinate reporting to a superior. “We first saw it used from a distance, then later Dean retrieved it to help us in a small skirmish. Both it and the Colt were in the possession of the demon who called himself Azazel’s son.”

One of Gabriel’s wings twitches, and a deep frown mars his features. “You called him Tom, right? And he’s one of the demons you killed getting out of there?”

“Yes.”

“Damn. He would have been interesting to interrogate.” Gabe shakes his head as though he truly mourns the missed opportunity. “The bitch who jumped you at the motel, when you got stabbed—she claimed to be one of Azazel’s children too, right?” When Castiel nods, he continues, “Is it possible he has any other kids that we may encounter at some point?”

“It’s doubtful,” Cas says. He mentally runs over the information he has gathered from his brief interactions with Azazel and his followers, but comes up with nothing substantial. “Tom and Azazel both referenced Meg, and it was implied that she informed them of our altercation with her. No other demons were mentioned or alluded to.”

Gabriel nods. The lollipop stick shifts in his mouth again. “Good. That’s good. So Tom—did you kill him with the knife?”

“I used the Colt,” Dean interjects. “Capped him between the eyes. You can count that as our test that _it_ works, too. If you want.”

“That’s good to know, too,” Gabe says. “It seems legitimate enough, but with a famous piece of weaponry like that, people are bound to have attempted to make fakes or duplicates that don’t work at all. And of course having a gun at all will be good for you wingless folks when it comes down to a fight, since its range makes it more useful in certain situations than a knife. Speaking of,” he continues, brandishing the knife in his hand, “this thing really is a beauty. You don’t recognize its origin, Cassie?”

Castiel frowns. “Should I?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Of course Michael wouldn’t have cared to tell his seraphs,” he mutters. “They’re not exactly big in most history books, but about two thousand years ago, a group of humans called the Kurds fancied themselves demon hunters. They somehow found a way to make a knife that could kill demons, though their process was a mystery and hasn’t been able to be replicated since. Of course, once word got out that the _Kurds_ could do it, everyone else in the region wanted to try their hand as well, and when that trend hit Canaan… I think you can understand why we had to put an end to the idea _real_ fast.”

“Okay, so you convinced everyone it was a bad idea,” Dean says, brow furrowed, “but what does that mean for us right now? If the Kurds were making these knives, are there a whole bunch of them scattered around? Can we find them so we’re better armed?”

Gabriel raises his eyebrows at Dean, looking faintly impressed by his apt line of questioning. “There _aren’t_ a bunch of them, actually,” he corrects. “That’s what makes the fact that you found one so special. Raph’s division is in charge of monitoring supernatural weapons, so he sent a garrison to round up as many of these babies as they could. Not many could have made it through the cracks, and any that were picked up were either locked away or destroyed. This very well could be one of a kind now.”

Jess clears her throat in a casual grab for the group’s attention, sitting forward at the table with her hands pressed flat against its surface. After a moment in which everyone waits in bated silence, she says flatly, “With all of these weapons at our disposal, we would be stupid not to attack Azazel right now. Cut him off before he reaches his end game.”

A beat passes, then Castiel responds with, “I don’t believe that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Jess demands, whipping around to look at the angel, affronted.

“Because it could very well be exactly what Azazel wants us to do,” he retorts. He understands that she doesn’t appreciate his immediate rejection of her plan, but the glare the hunter is now directing towards him is already getting under his skin. “By now, Azazel must know that Dean and I killed his son and escaped. He knows that we have both the Colt and the demon-killing knife, so no attack we may launch could possibly be a surprise.”

“It doesn’t have to be a complete surprise,” Sam interjects, rising to his girlfriend’s defense. Castiel is glad to see that he appears far less agitated than Jess, at least. “Jess might have a point about cutting him off, at least. These weapons _are_ powerful enough to handle it—”

“Sam, are you stupid?” Dean demands suddenly. He has leaped past the level of agitation that his mate sits at and gone straight to anger, the emotion burning through his body and across his scent. “If we go after Azazel now, all he’s going to do is grab _you_ and then go back to whatever cave-lair he’s hiding in this week.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, I know Azazel’s after me. We’ve been over this. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t take him out, just because you’re scared I might slip up! I can stay out of his way long enough for us to stop the son of a bitch, or if it’s really that much of a problem, I can stay on the bench. Going after him still seems like our best bet. Stop being so overprotective, you’re sounding like Dad.”

Dean flinches at that last line, and a small growl starts to build up in Castiel’s chest in his defense. He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and guides him back a few steps, subtly asserting himself between the brothers and staring down the younger one. “And how is it you expect to _stop_ Azazel? As long as he is possessing John Winchester, there is no way to kill the demon without also killing your father.”

“So we exorcise Azazel first,” Jess says, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. “We can lock him in a devil’s trap and cast him out of John’s body. That’s half of our battle at least, and I think we can really use your dad in this anyway. From what I’ve heard, he’s a great hunter.”

“No,” Dean and Cas both snap at the same time. They exchange a brief look and then Dean continues, “We don’t need John in this. Not that badly. He’s a good hunter, sure, but nothing he can offer us would be worth risking everything by moving too soon.”

“You’re probably right, boy,” Bobby weighs in with a weary sigh. “Taking on a big bad like Azazel just to get John back, but at the price of losing Azazel himself? We’ll be better off biding our time and makin’ a plan to do it all at once.”

Gabriel blows out a breath, his wings ruffling. “Maybe, maybe not. There are advantages to striking now—whether Papa Winchester is our goal or not—just as there are advantages to waiting for a better understanding of just what we’re up against. Going for Azazel now _would_ give us the benefit of stopping Azazel’s plans from developing further, like Jess suggested.”

Jess shoots Dean and Castiel a smug look, and Castiel has to fight not to let his inner alpha show how infuriated the gesture makes him.

“But that could still easily bite us in the ass,” Dean argues, directing the words toward the archangel. “Even if we _could_ catch him off guard, what kind of chance do we really have of beating him without any better game plan than we have right now? Or some back up plan, even? You said he has an army. Are we going to kill the _thousands_ of demons he’s directing, too? Three bullets and a pig-sticker knife ain’t gonna be worth shit in a fight that big, no matter what they can do.”

Gabriel purses his lips and is about to either agree with or refute Dean’s statement, but whichever side he may have fallen on is not revealed, because Sam interrupts and asks, seemingly out of the blue, “Dean, did something happen between you and Dad?”

Dean tenses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Bullshit. You were all gung-ho to save Dad a few days ago, so what happened between now and then to change your mind?”

Castiel senses where this is going, the memory of the encounter with John and Azazel unpleasant for him as well, and interrupts sharply, “Sam, what happened isn’t important. You should respect your brother’s input on this matter.”

Sam’s expression morphs to one of concern while he glances between his brother and Castiel, and after a moment, he nods.

Castiel lets out a quiet sigh of relief.                                                                             

Unfortunately, it is a rather short-lived relief, as Jess is less understanding than her boyfriend.

“Does it even _matter_ what happened?” she asks. “Even if you have beef with your dad, the fact remains that we should stop Azazel. We should stop him before he can get even stronger, or find some way to get his hands on Sam. If you don’t want to save him first, worst case scenario, he goes down with Azazel. Every mission has its red shirts.”

“Are you honestly suggesting that we just let John _die_?” Bobby snarls. “I know he ain’t exactly got a fan club, but condemning him without even making an effort otherwise is unfair, even for that rat bastard.”

At Castiel’s side, Dean is now trembling with rage. “We aren’t just abandoning him, Jess! We’ll find some way to save him, but _later_ , when we actually know what we’re doing and what we’re up against. Anything sooner than that is nothing but suicide.”

“And why do you get to make that decision?” Jess demands. “Because this seems to me like something we’re _all_ involved with at this point. It should be a _group_ decision, not yours, Dean. Just because you have your own, personal angel attached to your hip doesn’t give you extra power over the rest of us. It’s not _our_ job to obey your every word.”

The angel in question winces. He can _feel_ Dean’s anger, and with the man’s emotions already running high from the debate over John, the worst possible thing Jess could have done was turn it into a contention over his mate.

As could only have been expected, Dean whirls on Jess, advancing a few steps toward the kitchen table where she sits with Sam. “Don’t you _dare_ make this into a power-play thing,” he growls. And it’s an actual growl, too, a deep rumble emanating from low in his chest. Sam and Jess both gasp and lean back in surprise, as does Bobby, standing not far behind them, but Dean is undeterred. “If you have a problem, Jessica, you can leave. But don’t for one goddamn _second_ think that I don’t have everyone’s best interests in mind here. And _don’t_ make this about Cas, just because he has more common sense than you do.”

Sam’s face has drained of all color as he stares at his brother. “Dean… Dean, your eyes…”

The growl in Dean’s chest heightens, and he whips his head around toward his mate. “What the hell is he talking about, Cas?”

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat. Dean’s irises have turned completely gold, glowing with angelic power. His scent, too, is completely overwhelming within the confines of the kitchen, and Castiel is only distantly aware of the mirroring change in his own eyes. His heartbeat pounds in his ears in a mixture of panic and… something else.

Dean’s own response only gets worse once he makes eye contact with Cas, his jaw going slack and a flush blooming just beneath his skin. His eyes seem to glow even brighter, if at all possible, and Castiel _swears_ he hears a soft moan in the quiet that follows the abrupt cut off of his growling.

Gabriel laughs, earning a hard glare from his brother. However, Castiel’s ire only amuses him further. “Oh _Dad_ , I can’t believe this is how this happened! Gotta say, Dean-o, your timing leaves much to be desired.”

A growl builds in Castiel’s chest. “ _Silence_ , Gabriel.”

On the other side of the room, Sam stands up from his chair and takes a hesitant step toward Dean, reaching a hand toward his shoulder. “Dean, what the hell…”

The moment Sam makes contact with him, Dean gasps and jerks away as though he were burned. “Sam, don’t—”

Seeing his mate be touched while in such a state brings out something primal in Castiel, and in a flash he is standing between Dean and Sam, his wings suddenly corporeal and arched so high that they press into the ceiling. “Do _not_ touch him,” he snarls at the younger man.

Sam doesn’t move an inch, and without even taking his eyes off of Castiel he says, like it will give him every answer, “Gabriel?”

Gabriel, the ass, just laughs again. He saunters forward and claps Sam on the shoulder, gently pulling him away from the other angel. “Well guys,” he says to the three baffled humans, “I think it’s time Uncle Gabe give you a nice talk about the _birds_ and the _bees_. First off, Samuel—never, under any circumstances, should you touch an angel in heat. _Especially_ when their mate is present, unless you want…” He waves his hand in Castiel’s general direction. “Y’know. _That_.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam asks, his expression wrinkled with confusion. “Dean isn’t an angel.”

“Well, _actually_ , I’ve got a funny story for you, Sammy…”

Castiel had been trying to keep up with the conversation—if only for Dean’s sake, since the angel knows that his mate had expressed worry over Sam’s reaction to his physical changes, and wants the reveal to go smoothly—but his focus dissolves into nothingness the moment a hand latches onto the bend before the arch of his wing and uses the leverage to turn him around. Behind him, Dean is wide-eyed and shaking, his irises still burning gold. Once Cas is facing him, Dean moves his hand from the bend of the wing to the inner, more sensitive feathers near the base, drawing out a moan. Already, the feathers there are growing damp from an increased production of oil.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean whispers, pulling the angel in closer and pressing his face into his neck to soak in his scent where it is strongest. “What’s happening? I feel like I’ve got the fucking _flu_.”

Both of Castiel’s hands instinctively drop to Dean’s waist to secure them together where it matters, simultaneously nuzzling into his mate’s hair and allowing the man a moment to center himself on the scent that now surrounds him. When they’re pressed completely together, he can truly feel the effect the sudden heat is now having on Dean’s body. He is warm to the touch at every point of contact between them, and even without taking into consideration the intense scent of an omega in heat, Dean’s arousal is obvious through the erection straining at the front of his jeans, a mirror of Castiel’s own.

And then, of course, there’s that _other_ scent. A mouthwatering, cherry-like sweetness, more enticing to the alpha than even the general scent that marks the presence of a heat, given their circumstances.

Dean is producing _slick_.

The thought makes Castiel groan, and without waiting another moment, he weaves a hand into Dean’s hair and moves him to slot their mouths together. Dean both melts and jumps to action beneath Cas’ lips, kissing back like a dying man in need of air.

Which, actually, might not be too dramatic of a comparison, given the absurd amount of hormones running through the alpha and omega with their combined rut and heat. The two feed off of each other, sending them to new heights. From the way Dean licks into Castiel’s mouth like he needs to taste every inch of it, Castiel starts to think that the ‘die without it’ part of the analogy may not be far off.

Every part of Castiel’s focus is completely narrowed down to his mate. A few other voices hum in the room at his back, but Castiel is aware of himself just enough to recognize that they are not a threat to either himself or Dean. Additionally, the two of them are not yet engaging in any activities that warrant a strong need for isolation.

So for now, he is perfectly content to box Dean against the kitchen counter with arms and wings alike and completely ravish him.

Or, he is until there’s a snapping sound near his right ear and a bucket of water is suddenly being upended over his and Dean’s heads.

Castiel splutters, clearing out what water had made it into his mouth and blinking it from his eyes. “Gabriel, so help me—”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. He still seems to find the situation entirely too humorous, and if Castiel were not currently so distracted by his mate, he may very well have punched the archangel in the mouth. Gabriel clearly knows this, and he says with a grin, “Just trying to stop you from making _too_ public a display there, Cassie. Don’t want to scare off the fam, after all.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “We’ll leave,” he says, and reaches for Dean to do just that, only to be stopped by a sharp gesture from Gabriel.

“Whoa, hold on there, bucko.” A hard plastic card materializes in Gabe’s hand with a flick of his wrist and he passes it to Castiel. At the same time, he reaches up and taps two of his fingers to the center of Castiel’s forehead, transferring to him the brief information necessary to locate the hotel room that the card key unlocks. “You have the room for a week,” he explains quickly, no doubt sensing his brother’s agitation and rising sense of urgency. “Don’t break anything, and keep Dean fed and hydrated. Room service will be charged to the room, so don’t worry about it.”

Castiel nods sharply. Dean has begun tugging on the hem of his shirt, and he is loath to deny him much longer. He somehow manages to grit out, “Thank you, Gabriel,” before grabbing Dean tightly and flying them both out of South Dakota.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But despite how good it feels for the angel to just rub up against his mate and entwine himself further in their current position, it isn’t what either of them truly needs. There’s a _different_ want burning beneath Castiel’s skin right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am so, _so_ incredibly sorry for the long delay behind this chapter. Really. I never meant to be away this long, but with the [12 Days](http://archiveofourown.org/series/369278) works (which I recommend reading if you haven't, because I worked damn hard on them) and a new quarter of school on top of that, I've been swamped. Throw in some writer's block for good measure, and here we are, a month later. Shouldn't be any more big breaks like this, if I can help it.
> 
>  _However_ , if something like this does happen again, I'm going to make a habit of keeping my tumblr up to date with progress. My plan is to add an update tab just for this, as soon as I manage to bludgeon my way through the code. Hopefully I'll get it figured out, and no one has to be left in the dark.
> 
> And finally, shout out to [Ari](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com/) for being an incredible beta, and cleaning up the horrendous mess that was chapter 18 and making it awesome.
> 
> Now, without further ado, please enjoy my apology chapter, AKA gratuitous smut. <3

The hotel Gabriel reserved is undoubtedly fancy and high-end, as well as cleaner and more spacious than any of the low-budget motels Castiel has so far seen in his short time with Dean. Few details other than that first impression manage to make it into Castiel’s rut-clouded brain, however. All he can focus on is Dean and Dean’s scent surrounding him and Dean’s mouth moving over his own and—

Dean is clinging to Castiel’s front. His hands are fisted in Castiel’s hair, and his movements are desperately uncoordinated as he tries to work his body as tightly around the angel as he possibly can. He doesn’t even attempt to move the two of them from their awkward landing position, leaving them standing in the very center of the room, too lost in his newly-surfaced instincts. So Castiel moves his hands, taking a firm grasp of Dean’s shoulders, and flies them both to the suite’s large bed with a quick twitch of his wings.

Dean gasps when his back hits the sheets, head pillowed as Cas moves to support his neck, but only responds by pulling his mate further on top of him. He wraps his thighs around Castiel’s waist to get him in the position he wants, drawing his mate into the cradle of his hips so that their cocks align perfectly. Dean then anchors the angel in place with a hand in his feathers, digging his fingers into the sensitive, oil-slick base of a wing, and gets a full-bodied shudder from Cas in return. Castiel mouths along Dean’s jawline, nipping and licking at the tender skin just beneath its curve and relishing every breathy moan it draws from his mate.

But despite how good it feels for the angel to just rub up against his mate and entwine himself further in their current position, it isn’t what either of them truly needs. There’s a _different_ want burning beneath Castiel’s skin right now.

The scent of a fresh wave of Dean’s slick suddenly assaults Castiel’s senses and sends him reeling, stalling the rutting of his hips and the procession of his mouth down the column of Dean’s throat. It smells absolutely _divine_ , better even than the regular scent of his mate’s arousal. The cherry-and-leather scent that Castiel loves so much is altered only slightly in its liquid form, smelling sweeter and crisper than usual, but unmistakably the same.

Castiel’s mouth waters, and he honestly starts to worry that he’ll pop his knot before even getting his pants off.

Dean whines in the back of his throat when Castiel’s ministrations cease, his golden-tinged eyes shining with confusion as to why Cas would stop now. He tugs against the angel with insistent hands, pulling Castiel away from his deep, steady inhalations at the base of the omega’s neck. “Cas, please. _Please_. Keep _moving_. Cas. I _need you_.”

The request is hardly specific, but Castiel gets the idea anyway. A flick of his grace renders them both naked, and Castiel wastes no time diving back down to reclaim Dean’s mouth with his own, pressed against his mate skin to skin. His wings arch and quiver with every brush of their tongues and sweep of their hands, oil from his glands beginning to run off the base feathers and further down the skin of his back. Eventually, he slides a hand down Dean’s side, over the skin of his hip and around under his thighs to circle Dean’s entrance, and groans anew when he discovers just how slick his mate has become.

Dean arches into the touch and moans, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and pressing their chests together. But his mate’s gentle movement also seems to draw him out of the fog of his heat for at least a few seconds. “Cas,” he grunts, “why am I—?”

Castiel quiets him by pressing a kiss to the center of his brow, before leaning their foreheads together. His hand, meanwhile, continues to circle and probe at Dean’s hole, as he eases the tips of his slick-drenched fingers past the ring of muscles there. Cas nearly loses what little self-control he had when his first two fingers sink suddenly into Dean without even a degree of resistance. The digits inside him clearly send Dean’s thoughts scattering as well, though the loud moan he lets free indicates anything but discomfort. Castiel fights to remain diligent, however, attempting to focus and explain simply, murmuring, “You’re in heat, love.”

Dean arches his neck back, digs his nails into Cas’ shoulders, and bears down on the fingers working inside of him, and for a moment Castiel doesn’t think his mate has heard what he said. Castiel pumps in and out of Dean a few times, relishing the easy give of muscles and their tantalizing slickness as he tries to flex his fingers and stroke Dean’s inner walls. He’s almost forgotten about the half-formed conversation by the time Dean says, “I thought this wasn’t supposed to— _fuck_ , right there!—happen for… months?”

“It has become exceedingly apparent to me,” Cas replies, easily slipping a third finger into his mate’s tight warmth and dropping his head to mouth over the mark on his neck, “that Gabriel didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Either that, or you’re exceptionally unique, as you are in everything else you do.”

If Dean weren’t already flushed from his heat, Cas is sure that that simple compliment would have turned him red in an instant. He can see it in the way Dean squirms a little more on his fingers, clenching down unwittingly, and in the way he pulls Castiel closer to hide his face in his neck.

Castiel smiles and moves the elbow he’d been braced on to hold his omega tightly to him. He tilts his head and kisses Dean roughly, gripping his hair in one hand as he pulls his fingers out of him with the other. But while Dean draws in a sharp breath and clenches around the sudden emptiness inside of him, Castiel makes sure not to leave him like that for long.

It takes only a slight repositioning and shift of his hips for his shaft to line up with his mate’s hole, and Dean hitches his thighs further up around the angel’s waist in expectation, locking his ankles together behind the dip of Cas’ back. As the head of his cock starts to sink into the warm pressure of Dean’s entrance, Castiel winds his arms further around his mate. He grasps at his waist and the short hairs at the back of Dean’s neck, bracing them both. In one smooth and steady thrust, Cas finally buries himself to the hilt and they each let out a groan. Dean feels perfect around him, hot and wet and completely overwhelming.

Castiel does his best to hold his position and give Dean the opportunity to adjust to him, but when Dean experimentally squeezes his muscles around Castiel’s length and moves his hand to grip the base of a wing, the angel nearly loses control. As it is, his own hands—one of which is still slippery with his mate’s slick (and he _really_ wants to lick it off, to finally get a taste, but he somehow restrains himself for the time being)—have a bruising grip on Dean’s waist and shoulder. It takes all of Cas’ effort not to start moving frantically and just pound into his mate.

Thankfully, it’s not long before Dean begins to shift relentlessly again, his ankles digging into the small of Castiel’s back and his hands tugging urgently on patches of damp feathers. He makes a desperate sound high in his throat and clenches again around the length inside him. “ _Cas, please_.”

That final plea is all it takes for the last of Castiel’s self-control to slip away, and for his inner alpha to take over completely. His eyes have been wavering between blue-red and full blown crimson until this point, but now his irises burn bright alpha red in the face of his rut lurching to the forefront. He knows they will stay as such until this wave of his rut is satisfied, and he can see Dean’s mirrored state in the now pure gold of his eyes.

He pulls back and then thrusts in sharply, punching a breath out of Dean. Then again, and once, twice more. Castiel plunges his way into a dramatic rhythm, tilting his hips back and drawing out before rocking forward hard into Dean, who just moans and tightens his hold on Cas’ wings. Whether he intends it or not, Dean’s hands are now positioned perfectly over Castiel’s oil glands. Every jerk of Dean’s fingers sends waves of sharp pleasure crashing through the angel, in both body and grace. Castiel cries out at the sensation, his wings flaring wildly, only increasing the force and weight with which he now fucks into his mate.

The combined strength of Dean’s heat and Cas’ rut propels both of their movements into territory bordering on animalistic, as Castiel speeds the rolling of his hips into an honestly punishing pace. The fire that had started out by pooling in his gut has now worked its way into all of the angel’s muscles, as he pushes both Dean and himself further and further towards the breaking point. Every shove of Castiel’s pelvis into Dean results in the frame of the bed slamming against the wall, despite its sturdy build and the fact that the top of the expensive frame is bolted to the ceiling.

Cas is left panting a litany of _Dean_ , _mate_ , _mine, Dean_ into the base of Dean’s throat, as each consecutive thrust punches a string of breathy _Cas_ ’s out of the omega, and causes him to tighten and bunch his legs around the angel with each roll of their bodies.

The noise and overall discord in the room reaches a new peak when Castiel shifts his hand down from Dean’s shoulder to join the other at his waist, before tilting his mate’s hips up and adjusting the angle of penetration.

Dean jolts as if he’s been shocked, yelling out a surprised, “ _Cas!_ ” as his fingers clench firmly in the base feathers of Castiel’s wings and intentionally _yank_ , hard. The so far jerky but strong movements of the angel’s wings abruptly flare into a burst of powerful flaps that shake the room, sending objects flying. He lets out a shout, and with the beatings of his wings at his back, Castiel is driven even deeper into his mate.

The sharp sound of skin slapping on skin bounces around the room as Cas makes an attempt to slide over Dean’s prostate at every pass. Dean responds by filling the room with a litany of swear words, scrunching his eyes shut and digging his nails into the skin of Castiel’s back, unable to keep a hold on his wings.

The flaps begin to die back down into uneven twitches once the angel’s knot starts to swell into place at the base of his cock. It catches on Dean’s rim with every pass, making the omega’s eyes widen as they shoot open and lock back onto Cas’ again. Dean writhes against his mate, clutches at his wings, attempts to pull him in impossibly closer—

One of Castiel’s thrusts finally locks him inside of Dean completely, and his climax rushes to wash over him as his seed floods into his mate. He breaks eye contact to bury his face in Dean’s neck, muffling the scream of his name. Dean hits his own climax only a second or two after the angel, gasping and gripping Cas by his feathers and hair. The omega tenses around and beneath him as Castiel continues to fuck them both through their highs, Dean’s cock spilling out across his stomach between them.

Castiel slumps over Dean as they come down, his energy leaving him all at once. He knows his rut will rear its head again within a few hours, just as Dean’s heat will also, but for now the desire to rest is overwhelming. After a bit of careful maneuvering slightly assisted by grace, they settle into a position comfortable for them both, Castiel lined up perfectly along his mate’s back, the two of them still knotted together. The angel spreads a wing over his side and across Dean like a heavy blanket, cocooning them together.

Cas is about halfway to a state of dozing within moments. While he knows Dean must be near the same in terms of exhaustion, his mate still musters up the energy to ask, “What the fuck is happening to me?”

“You’re in heat,” Castiel answers, the words muffled against the side of Dean’s neck. “Do you not recall discussing this a few minutes ago?”

Dean scoffs lightly, a response obviously hindered by the weight of the fatigue pulling at his mind. “I don’t think I’d call that a _discussion_ , Cas. Most people don’t _discuss_ things while they have the other person’s fingers up their ass, or while they feel like… whatever the hell it is I was feeling like.”

The ambiguity of that statement catches Castiel’s attention. His hand automatically tightens where it had come to rest on Dean’s hip. “And what were you feeling like, Dean? Are you… alright? I know this is strange, I wouldn’t blame you if—”

“No, I’m fine, it’s not like that,” Dean quickly interrupts. He’s quiet for a fraction of a second, then corrects, “Well, yeah, I guess it is kinda like that. I’m not _complaining_ , I’m not mad or anything. I’m fine. I just…” He sighs heavily. “Angel sex is fucking weird, alright? And my ass shouldn’t be this _wet_.”

Castiel chuckles quietly. “I can understand how that may be strange for you, yes. I’m afraid the only consolation I can hope to offer is that you will become more accustomed to it with time. But aside from that… This isn’t something you mind? Being in heat?”

Dean’s shoulder twitches against Cas’ own in something like a shrug. “Other than the fever I’m running, it’s not so bad.” He pauses to yawn, snuggling back against Castiel as he does. “I think I can roll with the marathon sex for a while. And it’s not like we’re gonna run out of lube.” He lazily runs his fingers through the dark mass of feathers that wrap over his body. Just when Castiel thinks his mate is on the verge of sleep again, Dean adds with an amused hum, “You didn’t shatter the lights this time. Proud of you.”

Castiel blinks in surprise. He raises his gaze to the ceiling to confirm and, sure enough, the light fixtures there are burned out but not shattered. There are also a handful of sconces mounted around the edge of the room, as well as a few lamps, and none of those have even gone out. Castiel is impressed, really. He doesn’t quite know how he managed it—having not been a conscious thing, by any means—but he’s pleased that he did. Cleaning up broken glass may not be difficult with the use of his grace, but it’s still a use of his energy.

He wonders how the fixtures will hold up over the coming days of continual sex. Hopefully, the element of his self-control that kept the lights from shattering will remain steady, but frankly the odds don’t seem great. It’s difficult to replicate an act one didn’t mean to commit in the first place.

Beside him, Dean lets out a small laugh that’s little more than a puff of air. “You got awfully quiet,” he mumbles, sounding half-asleep. “Don’t tell me that one stumped you?”

Castiel presses a soft kiss to the side of Dean’s neck, his lips only barely touching the slightly-raised scar of the mating bite. “A bit,” he confesses. “But it’s not important. You should sleep while you can, Dean. You will need the rest.”

Dean’s grumbled response only vaguely resembles an affirmation. Regardless, he’s out like a light within seconds.

Castiel is more than content to follow his example.

~

It’s early in the morning when Castiel is pulled back into full awareness. Dean is shamelessly grinding back onto the angel’s still-sheathed cock, half-formed moans bubbling out of his throat as Castiel is thrust into him deeper with every sleepy roll of his hips. His knot has already begun to expand and tease at Dean’s rim as the slick sounds of them moving together quicken.

It takes almost no thought at all for Castiel to react. He flips Dean face-down against the bed and ruts into him. The angle is immediately better, driving him further in than he was able to get before, and it’s only a minute more before his knot is locking fully into place. He wraps his arms around Dean, working them under his chest, and comes with a grunt of his name, while Dean’s own climax is accompanied by only an indecipherable cry of _something_.

Castiel doesn’t realize just how strong the scent of Dean’s heat had been until it wanes slightly and fades into the background a bit more, its absence making it more obvious. The sweet smell eclipses even the thick, musty scent of his own rut, and it’s so enticing that Castiel truly wishes he hadn’t already knotted Dean, just so he could start the whole process over.

Dean, for his part, seems to be having a similar train of thought, if his content sigh and the accompanying wiggle of his hips are any indication. He doesn’t seem to have any objections to being completely blanketed by Castiel’s full weight, either, so the angel only shifts minutely before allowing himself to relax again, ready to wait for his knot to go down.

Dean buries the side of his face in a pillow, and is snoring lightly after only a few more moments.

Castiel relaxes his arms around his mate and settles in to wait for his return to consciousness.

~

The next time Dean wakes, he’s in a distinctly less heat-clouded state of mind, which Castiel has to admit is a bit of a relief. It’s only been an hour or so since their last bout, and while the thought of more sex is far from unappealing, Dean lacks true angelic stamina even while in heat. Unlike Castiel, the omega has a biological need to sleep, eat, stay hydrated, et cetera. Carrying on with too much gusto could easily end up being harmful to Dean’s health.

As though he’s reading the angel’s thoughts, the first words out of Dean’s mouth are, “Didn’t Gabe say something about _room service_?”

Even though his mate can’t see it with their positions as they are, Castiel smiles. “He said something about it, yes. However, I can’t claim to have been paying very much attention to my brother at that point in time. I was rather… occupied.”

Dean laughs and rolls over to rest his chin on Castiel’s chest, peering up at his mate with bright, gold-flecked green eyes. “ _Occupied_ is one word for it, yeah,” he teases. “But that was a thing, right? He said that? Because I’d _really_ like to order some breakfast.”

“I’m sure breakfast can be arranged,” Castiel replies, threading his fingers into Dean’s mussed hair. “I would offer to do it myself, but…”

“But you don’t know how room service works?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Dean grins. “Yeah, that’s not surprising. Lucky for both of us, I _do_ know how it works.” He proceeds to roll back off of Castiel, and crosses the room to retrieve a small, leather-bound binder with a room service menu listed in the back. He shows it to Castiel with a teasing smirk, then picks up the room’s phone to call the appropriate number to place an order.

It only takes a few moments for the order to be placed. Dean chooses a few items and then asks for two of each for sharing purposes, which Castiel finds infinitely endearing. It arrives at their door mere minutes after that. Dean mumbles something about _fancy hotels_ and _efficiency_ when the attendant knocks to announce his arrival, but before Dean can get out of bed to go open the door, Castiel growls softly at him and flies across the room to do it himself.

He can’t allow his mate to be in the presence of a _stranger_. Cas’ rut may be in a lull for the time being, but his inner alpha is still more than active enough to dictate that while Dean is in heat, the omega is Castiel’s, and Castiel’s alone.

Perhaps calling for room service was not the best decision.

Dean makes a sound of strangled amusement. “ _Cas_ , don’t open the door, you don’t even have pants on!”

It seems like an irrelevant fact to Castiel, but regardless, he materializes himself a pair of boxer shorts before opening the door a few inches. He carefully keeps his wings out of sight of the young, uniformed man standing in the hallway, but that doesn’t stop the man from looking unsettled by him. Whatever reasons he has for being so are beyond Castiel’s comprehension, but luckily, the angel doesn’t care. Requested or not, this man is still much closer to his vulnerable mate than he would like.

After a long moment under Castiel’s scrutiny, the man shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. “I… have your breakfast, sir.” He lifts the tray in his hands a bit higher in emphasis. “May I come in, to place it on the table?”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “No. I’ll take it.”

The man seems surprised by that, but doesn’t hesitate to adjust his hold on the tray to transfer it to Castiel. The angel only opens the door wide enough to pass the tray through it, then promptly closes it to a sliver again. “Thank you. In the future, please leave the food outside the room and leave.”

The man gives an aborted nod and quickly retreats down the hallway. Once he’s out of sight, Castiel closes and locks the door, then carries the tray of food to the bed.

Dean, it turns out, is struggling to barely withhold laughter. He cracks completely when Castiel frowns at him in confusion, covering his face with his hands in a poor attempt to contain himself.

“Dean?” Cas pokes him in the side, hoping to jar him out of his fit. It doesn’t quite have the desired effect, however, since Dean gasps and jerks away, but otherwise continues to laugh. “Why are you laughing? I don’t understand.”

“You—” Dean’s laughs break into a cough, and he wipes at the moisture in his eyes. “Fucking _hell_ , Cas, you totally just scarred some poor bellboy! Even from here I could tell you were freaking the kid out. I could hear it in his voice.”

Castiel’s frown only deepens. “I don’t understand. Why did I ‘freak him out’?”

“You’re joking, right?” Dean asks incredulously. He practically giggles at the blank stare Castiel gives him in response, and says, “Dude, everything about you _screams_ ‘sex’ right now. You’re basically naked, even with the boxers. Plus, you were being weirdly hostile for someone who’d just called room service. And _then_.” He points a finger in Castiel’s face, grin still firmly in place. “On top of all of that, you have _red eyes_! Cas, you are the weirdest thing that kid has ever seen in his life. Congratulations.”

Oh. Now that he’s seeing it Dean’s way, Castiel almost feels bad for frightening the attendant as he did.

But in his own defense, he didn’t _know_ his eyes were still noticeably red. They had calmed to almost their normal blue hue since his last knotting with Dean, and while he can feel the itch of the rut building back up in his bones, it hasn’t yet reached a point beyond his control. In all reality, it was probably the wave of alpha possessiveness that caused the sudden change in color. That same possessiveness having been too distracting for him to have noticed the shift.

“At least the waffles are good,” Dean says suddenly, redrawing Castiel’s attention. Somehow, in the brief handful of seconds that he’d spent mulling over his actions, Dean managed to eat half of his serving of waffles, as well as drink almost all of his orange juice.

It’s rather impressive, really.

Dean cuts a piece of his remaining waffle with the side of his fork and offers it to Castiel. The angel doesn’t hesitate to lean in and take the bite, but the flavors that hit his tongue are far too sweet for his liking, and he wrinkles his nose.

Dean chuckles, cutting another bite for himself and eating it happily. “Not your thing, huh?”

“No,” Cas confirms. He takes a sip from the second glass of orange juice to clear the taste of the waffle from his mouth. “You can eat the second plate as well, if you wish.”

Dean smiles. “If you insist.”

The entire meal is cleared in what the angel thinks must be record time, and by the time it’s finished, Dean looks extremely self-satisfied. Castiel half-expects him to then lie back down and take a nap—there’s a degree of weariness in his eyes that certainly lends itself to that prediction being likely—but instead, Dean jumps up and takes Castiel’s hand, hauling him in direction of the bathroom.

“I don’t know about you,” Dean says in explanation, “but I _really_ need a shower. Might as well do it while we’re somewhat lucid, huh?”

Castiel isn’t quite sure that a shower shared between the two of them will manage to remain _lucid_ , as Dean puts it, but he doesn’t object. The idea of having Dean naked, and wet, and sharing a small space… He begins to harden from anticipation alone.

However, his excitement for shower sex doesn’t make him any less unhappy about having to tuck his wings into their pocket dimension for even a short amount of time. He needs to _display_ his wings, damnit. He needs to be able to demonstrate his full capabilities for his omega, to show his dominance and strength. Going forward without his wings visible makes his inner alpha twitch. He doesn’t like it.

Dean, efficient enough to have already started the shower and be standing under its spray even while his mate is having an internal crisis, tugs Castiel toward him. In the past few minutes, his eyes have gone almost completely gold. “Oh, come on, you don’t need your wings _that bad_ ,” he reprimands, unsurprisingly seeing straight to the heart of Castiel’s problem. “You’re still a sexy motherfucker, and you’re still going to fuck me up against this wall. Are you getting in or not?”

Castiel tucks his wings away and gets in in the same second.

At first, Dean actually does focus on cleaning himself using the small bottles of soap the hotel has provided. He runs a handful of shampoo through his own hair and then gets a second dollop from the bottle which he uses to wash Cas’ for him while focusing on his eyes, and _that_ is where they derail.

It’s Dean who starts it, pushing Castiel up against one of the tiled walls and kissing him with enough force to bruise. His cock is hard and hot where it presses into Castiel’s hip, and for a moment, the angel doesn’t know which entices him more, that or the tongue that has slid into his mouth alongside his own.

He decides fairly rapidly that the answer is _both_. Cas makes a sound halfway between a growl and a purr as he strokes his tongue over his mate’s, at the same time that he also drags the pad of his thumb over the head of Dean’s dick. Dean makes a muffled noise low in his throat and grabs a handful of the angel’s ass.

In an instant, Castiel has flipped their positions to put the omega’s back against the wall instead. From there, Dean doesn’t hesitate to jump and wrap his legs around Castiel’s waist, allowing himself to be supported completely between his mate’s body and the shower wall. His entrance is already open and ready when Castiel moves a hand down to slide a finger in. Dean makes an impatient noise, slick mingling with the rush of water and running off of his own body and down Castiel’s legs. He pushes the angel’s arm away, and instead brings it up to brace them both against the wall, sliding onto Castiel’s cock without any further delay. Dean stills for only a moment to adjust to the intrusion, before tightening his grip on the angel and using the tiled surface behind him as leverage to twist his hips downward to impale himself further.

Castiel takes the hint and starts to fuck Dean properly. He makes use of his strength in order to move Dean’s body against his own, burying himself in his mate’s tight heat again and again. Dean moves to suck at the base of Cas’ neck as the alpha leaves finger-shaped bruises over his hips, like he is eager to leave behind marks of his own. By now, Castiel has more than enough experience to know exactly how to make Dean cry out the most, nailing his prostate with every thrust, and he puts that knowledge to good use. Dean may have had some semblance of active participation at the beginning, but now that Castiel has taken the reins, it’s all he can manage to clutch at the angel’s shoulders and hang on for the ride.

It feels like forever and no time at all before heat starts to pool in Castiel’s gut, and his knot begins to swell into place. Dean moans and does his best to push back down against the angel when the knot starts to tug on his rim, and Castiel reaches down to take his mate’s cock in hand at the same time. Dean’s nails dig into Cas’ skin and score lines down his back as the angel’s fist pumps over him. He picks up volume and pulls himself as close to his mate as possible, mumbling against the underside of his jaw, “C’mon, Cas, _give it to me_.”

The demand finally pushes Castiel over the edge, his knot locking him inside of Dean and tugging at his rim as they continue to rock together. His orgasm hits him with enough force to make his vision blur at the edges, and he’s still at his peak when there’s an acute pain in his neck, causing it to go unnoticed for the moment. He’s dimly aware of Dean clenching down around him as he feels a shudder go up the other man’s spine, so Cas tightens his hand before his omega follows him over the edge.

He leans heavily against Dean while they both bask in their afterglows, the water of the shower already washing away Dean’s come where it had splattered across both of their chests. Part of Castiel wants to rematerialize his wings to wrap them around his mate, but he fights off the urge.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the doze Dean seems to have already fallen into, Castiel reaches over and turns off the shower. Once the water is off, he dries them both in an instant with the assistance of his grace. He then flies himself and Dean back out to the bed, positioning their bodies with his mate on top of him, curled against his chest. He doesn’t bother to bring his wings out, since they would be squished against the bed anyway. He’s content enough to have his mate in his arms, however, that the previous point of contention seems much less important than it had before their shower.

Castiel is close to dropping into a doze himself when a sudden realization hits him. The surprise would have caused him to sit upright if the movement wouldn’t completely dislodge Dean, but as it is his body still tenses, and his hand flies to his neck in surprise. The flesh there is tender, even the simple touch of fingers drawing an involuntary hiss, and his hand comes away bloody.

Dean pushes himself up on his arms to peer down at Cas, only a few flecks of gold still present in his sleep-heavy eyes. Those eyes then widen in horror when he sees the expression on his mate’s face, but just what that expression may be is beyond Castiel’s ability to guess at the moment.

Dean bit him.

Castiel has a mating bite. A mating bite from _Dean_ , his human mate. Dean, who he thought would never have the capability, let alone the desire, to return the alpha’s own mating bite.

Now that he knows to feel for it, Castiel can sense a slight shift in his bond with Dean as opposed to how it had been before. He can feel Dean more closely than he had been able to previously, more like the omega is now an extension of Castiel’s own body.

Is this what all mating bonds are like? If so, he can’t believe he didn’t know how _incomplete_ their bond had been before. Although, his obliviousness to that fact wasn’t helped by his and Dean’s status as true mates, which draws them closer together than most ordinary mated pairs anyway and so had made an incomplete bond even less obvious to the angel.

How was Castiel supposed to know there was more to it? It’s not like he’s ever _been_ mated. Gabriel has always been his primary source of information, and even _he_ hasn’t mated himself.

(Although he did get close to it with Kali all those centuries ago, but they don’t talk about that.)

Dean’s hands on his face jar Castiel out of his spiraling thoughts. “Cas? Cas, please talk to me. I didn’t mean to do that, I’m so fucking sorry—”

Castiel swiftly repositions them once more, turning them both over and refitting himself between Dean’s legs so that he can easily lean down and kiss his mate with all of the passion now burning in his veins. He can _feel_ Dean’s concern give way to arousal-tinged happiness. Confusion still lurks just beneath the surface, as well as a bit of surprise, but neither of those emotions strike Castiel as important at the moment. He can deal with those later, when he _isn’t_ sucking on Dean’s bottom lip, or stroking his tongue along the roof of Dean’s mouth.

Eventually Dean has to break away to breathe, and when he does, he eyes the bite warily. He rubs his thumb around the perimeter of the mark, careful not to actually touch the broken skin. “So… You _aren’t_ pissed that I bit you? Or like… horribly offended?”

“Of course not,” Cas replies, nuzzling lightly at the bite on Dean’s own neck. “It surprised me when I finally noticed, but that does not make it an issue by any stretch. And if I recall correctly, I believe I surprised _you_ with your bite, as well. I suppose this makes us even.”

Dean is quiet for a second, his eyes still locked on the bite he inflicted as he works through his thoughts. “I can’t believe I did that,” he groans quietly, looking shell-shocked. “Why did I do that?”

“It was just instinct,” Castiel explains, “nothing to be ashamed of. Our bond was only half-formed. Your urge to give me your mark was likely partially inspired by a desire to finish the bond, and partially by our underlying true mate bond driving you to claim me regardless of our existing status. I was affected by the latter on the day that I met you.”

Dean frowns, wiggling a bit as he readjusts himself beneath Castiel. “Hold on a minute. Our bond was ‘half-formed’? What the hell does that mean, that I should have bitten you sooner? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Castiel shrugs. “I didn’t know. But that’s unimportant, because now it _is_ fully-formed.” He pulls lightly at the tendrils of the bond he can feel in his mind, watching Dean closely for a reaction. “There. Can you feel that?”

Dean’s eyes widen in surprise. “Holy hell,” he breathes. “This is… I can feel _you_. Dude, this might even be cooler than that time we almost had soul sex.”

That startles a laugh out of Castiel. “Well, to be fair, we didn’t _actually_ have ‘soul sex’, as you say, so we have no way of knowing whether or not that would be cooler.”

“Ten bucks says it’s even better now than it was with the half-bond,” Dean retorts with a grin. “Wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”

Castiel chuckles, and kisses the tip of Dean’s nose before flipping them one last time so that Dean is again resting on his chest. “Perhaps later,” he promises. “For now, I can feel how tired you are. Get some rest, before your heat flares up again.”

Dean deflates ever so slightly, but nods in acknowledgement. He yawns widely, like his exhaustion is trying to prove a point. He slumps lazily over Castiel’s form, and says against the skin of his shoulder, “We’re trying that at _some point_ , you know.”

“ _Sleep_ , Dean.”

Dean is asleep before Cas even finishes giving him the command. His side of the bond reduces down to something resembling background static in Castiel’s own mind, which the angel discovers he can’t peel his attention away from. It’s soothing to have Dean’s presence running a direct feed into his own awareness, and despite the joy that’s still coursing through his system, Castiel is easily lulled into a sleep-like state by the soft hum of the bond.

He could really get used to this.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heat and rut burn strong for four days, including the day they had first started, but it isn’t until midway through the fifth that they truly begin to peter out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, friends. I hope you're ready for this.
> 
> Beta'd by the ever-wonderful [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com/), who is literally the best.
> 
> **Update, Feb. 2:** No new chapter this week. For my full apology and explanation, check [here](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/post/138553178845/to-anyone-keeping-up-with-for-every-alpha).

Castiel has spent plenty of ruts by himself, hidden away in his own, personal space in Heaven. It’s a steady cycle, with a rut cropping up every now and again demanding to be satisfied, and urging him to take a mate. No matter how strongly the rut pushed him, though, he had always refused to find another angel to fulfill his needs with. He simply wasn’t interested. Didn’t see the appeal.

However, now that he has Dean, he hardly understands how he’d previously withstood his rut alone.

Of course, the fact that Dean’s heat had hit at the same time as Castiel’s rut only serves to make the days of lust-filled madness that much more enjoyable. Before Dean, Castiel had never even been _near_ an omega in heat, so he had had no idea that his mate would be such a perfect match for his rut, just as insatiable as Castiel himself.

It works out quite well.

The heat and rut burn strong for four days, including the day they had first started, but it isn’t until midway through the fifth that they truly begin to peter out. Castiel wakes Dean up with a quiet, lazy fuck, after which they lounge in bed for a few hours, nibbling on a breakfast order that is delivered to the room and left outside the door.

By now, all of the hotel staff are well aware of Castiel’s preference to not be directly disturbed, for any reason. They don’t even have to ask for food deliveries to be left by the door anymore. The kitchen employee who takes their order always repeats the statement of where the food will be left before Castiel—who is frequently the one to place the orders, now that he fully understands how room service works—even has to say it himself. Dean finds it endlessly amusing.

After breakfast, Dean rolls from his place at Castiel’s side up over his body to straddle his waist. It’s not a sexual position, however, as Dean only uses the leverage to pin his mate with a challenging stare. “If we were to take a shower,” he says, watching Cas closely like there’s some kind of reaction he’s expecting, “could we manage it _without_ it turning into shower sex?”

The serious tone behind Dean’s words makes Castiel chuckle. They’ve tried to shower at least once a day the past few days. Which means that at least once a day, they end up knotted under a spray of water and against the tiles in some odd position or another. Castiel always dries them both and transports them to the bed to wait out his knot, but Dean still considers it a nuisance for the simple reason that he hasn’t managed to _finish_ a shower since his heat started.

Castiel doesn’t quite understand the need to shower at all, but since it makes his mate happy, he’s more than willing to go along with it.

He nods in response to Dean’s question. “I believe we can manage it, yes. Unless your heat has flared back up? It shouldn’t; my rut is just about finished, and your heat ought to be in sync.”

Dean scowls down at him, giving Castiel the distinct impression that the omega doesn’t like being reminded that said shower sex is typically his own fault. “I feel fine,” he says petulantly. “Are we good or not? Because so help me god, I will go in there alone if I have to, and lock the door behind me.”

“Is that so?” Castiel raises an eyebrow, and curves his wings up to tease the tips of his primary feathers across the bare skin of Dean’s back and upper arms. “You do recall that I can fly past a locked door, correct? I will always honor your need for privacy if you so desire it, but this ultimatum in particular is perhaps not the best you could have chosen.”

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes. “Okay, Cas, but saying ‘behave yourself or I’ll politely ask you to leave’ doesn’t sound as scary. And that won’t stop me from locking the door, either, if you’re going to be a smartass.”

“Dean. Would you like to take a shower, or reprimand me for something beyond either of our control?”

Dean glares for a moment, then finally relents and leads Castiel to the shower. Once they’re both beneath the hot spray, he keeps a carefully-maintained distance between their bodies, not even breaking the boundary to wash the angel’s hair like he usually does.

Castiel resolutely doesn’t pout. At least, he tries not to.

Dean’s smug, poorly-hidden grin has Cas doubting just how successful he is.

Things even out, however, for only a few minutes later, Dean is pressed against the side of the shower while Castiel thrusts into him from behind. The events having lead to this point are a bit of a blur in Castiel’s mind, but as his knot swells into place and Dean spasms and comes across the tile wall, one thought is clear.

It was completely Dean’s fault.

“Was _not_ ,” Dean gasps, his body gone loose and pliant after his orgasm. Across both of their minds, the mating bond hums with far too much satisfaction for his agitation to be taken seriously. “Typically, the one getting fucked against a wall isn’t the one calling the shots. Just so you know.”

Castiel leans forward to drape himself across Dean’s back, brushing his lips over his mate’s bite mark before hooking his chin over the man’s shoulder. “Then perhaps you aren’t completely ‘calling the shots’, as you say,” he replies, “but you were still a clear agitator. The blame is not solely mine.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean grumbles in return, not even bothering to pretend he refutes the statement. “Just take us back to the bed, will you?”

Castiel does as he’s told, and a few moments later the two of them are spooned together in between soft sheets. Dean’s skin is warm against his own, but it no longer carries the fever of his heat. His scent, too, has evened back out, indicating that the heat is well and truly over.

Dean can obviously sense it as well, because eventually he nudges the angel with his shoulder and says, “Jesus Christ, I never thought I’d be so happy to have marathon sex come to an end.”

Castiel frowns. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“No, that’s not—” Dean laughs and shakes his head. “Not at all what I meant, Cas. The sex was fucking _great_ , as I’m sure you know, but the whole ‘heat’ thing is still weird. Can’t say I like how it makes me feel. But _this_ —” He tightens his muscles around Castiel’s knot, startling a groan out of the angel. “—is kind of growing on me, I have to say.”

It takes a minute for Castiel to recover from the shock of Dean moving over him, but once he has, his mate’s amusement is shining so brightly in his mind that he can’t help but share the emotion. He is happy that Dean is adjusting to the angelic aspects of their relationship, even if that adjustment isn’t happening instantaneously. Cas drops a kiss to Dean’s bare shoulder and pours his own happiness and love into the bond that connects them. “I’m glad.”

Dean doesn’t respond to the sudden burst of emotions, but Castiel can still tell that it flusters him, at least to some degree. A small tendril of contentment works its way into the bond before Dean tamps down on it and clears his throat, heralding a change in subject. “So. Guess this means we have to go back to the real world, huh?”

“Unfortunately,” Castiel agrees. Even now that his rut has subsided, he would still much prefer to stay in bed with Dean all day every day than return to the difficulties they’re facing in the real world. He doesn’t want to set aside this all-encompassing contentment that he feels to deal with Azazel, and John Winchester, and Sam’s demonic taint, and whatever other horrors end up being thrown their way.

But just because he doesn’t _want_ to do it, doesn’t mean he _won’t_. Gabriel raised him better than that. He knows how to make sacrifices when necessary.

When Dean is finally able to slip free of Castiel’s knot some time later, the first thing he does is roll off the bed and search out his phone for the first time in days. He had pulled it out of the pocket of his discarded jeans at some point after their first night to check for any messages from his family. There had only been a single text from Bobby, telling Dean to take his time sorting himself out, and that he, Sam, and Jess would stay hunkered down at his house while they waited. Dean had been reassured, but he was also somewhat disappointed by the lack of anything more. The phone itself had then been left on a table on the side of the room in case it rang or was otherwise needed.

It didn’t ring, and it was never needed.

Dean retrieves his phone and returns to perch on the edge of the bed, glaring at the device in his hand and mashing uselessly at its buttons. “Fuck. Battery’s dead, and I don’t have a charger.”

Castiel wordlessly extends a hand and touches the tip of his index finger to the phone’s dark screen, and channels a small spark of grace into it. It powers up immediately, starting into its load-cycle.

Dean grins and leans over to peck the angel on the cheek. “God, you’re so fucking great.”

Castiel smiles back at him, basking in the feel of his mate’s pride. The phone screen flashes a moment later and draws his attention away from Dean. The sight of the wallpaper that has now loaded into place makes his heart beat a little faster in his chest, and he ducks his head down to get a better look at it. “Is that… me?”

Dean flushes, his grip on the phone tightening like he wants to pull it away, hide it from sight. The bond floods with embarrassment as Dean scrambles for an answer. “I-I mean, it was just—aesthetically—”

It’s a picture of Castiel, lying on his stomach on the hotel bed. His head is turned away from the camera, propped up on his own arm like a pillow, his wild hair in perfect focus and the muscles of his back and shoulders a central figure. His wings are bared, one curving over his free arm like a blanket while the other extends beyond the bottom of the frame, too far past the camera to be photographed. The black of his feathers—and the near-black of his hair, for that matter—are in stark contrast to the white linens on the bed, with his tan skin acting as some sort of middle ground between the two shades.

As Dean had begun to say, it’s a very nice picture, aesthetically speaking.

Dean reads most of Cas’ reaction through the bond—the angel too stunned to properly interact with him as of yet—and responds with his own wave of surprise. “You… like it?”

It seems like an understatement. Sure, the photo is of himself and liking _that_ element of it may be somewhat narcissistic, but it isn’t just that. It’s the fact that _Dean_ took the picture, while Castiel was somehow unaware. It’s the fact that his mate thought him beautiful enough to want to preserve that moment. And not only did he save a snapshot for the future, but he also set it as the background of his phone, where he could always see it at a glance. Where there had previously been a picture of his car, his most prized possession.

Castiel has to clear his throat before he can speak again. Dean’s screen times out and goes dark under his stare, but a single touch of a button restores it. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a photo taken of me.”

“You—What?” Dean looks fully outraged by this when Cas glances up at him, but as soon as he meets the angel’s eyes, he mellows significantly. “Okay, maybe it’s not _so_ ridiculous, I guess. No cameras in Heaven?”

“We don’t need them,” Castiel answers with a shrug. “Angels have perfect memories, so there is no need to preserve relics of the past in such a form. But… I’ve always admired the concept. In an objective way. It’s just another way humans amaze me.”

Dean gives a soft huff of amusement. “Jesus, you _would_ be amazed by humans. You’re such a dork.”

Castiel smiles. “Considering my true mate is a human, I don’t think my appreciation is misplaced, do you?”

“Alright, fair play.”

Dean’s phone suddenly trills in his hand, the wallpaper becoming obscured by notifications for text messages and missed calls, a number of each flooding in now that the device is powered on and reconnected to the network. It buzzes for a few solid seconds, each notification overlapping with the end of the last to form one continual alert.

When it finally ends, Dean just sighs. “Son of a bitch.”

There are over a dozen text messages altogether, including the one from Bobby right after Dean’s heat started, and almost an equal number of missed calls. Castiel watches over Dean’s shoulder as he skims the list of missed calls, and when he sees that they’re all from Ash, a pit forms in his stomach.

The text messages hardly assuage that feeling. The first few received had been from Bobby and Sam, idle comments on Dean and Cas’ situation and a question about a possible Bloody Mary case in Ohio. Then Ash’s had started coming in about two days into Dean’s heat, the same time that he started calling.

 

_Ash (10/16/2005 11:27pm): Hey amigo. Got some weird readings on the demon-meter. Ring me._

_Ash (10/17/2005 12:15am): Seriously, Winchester, you’re going to want to see this._

_Ash (10/17/2005 12:54am): Deano._

_Ash (10/17/2005 1:03am): Where the hell are you?_

_Ash (10/17/2005 1:13am): Major demon readings, man, getting real close to Sioux Falls._

_Ash (10/17/2005 3:38am): Talked to Bobby, since you dropped off the face of the planet. Old man said he’d give you all the details when you get back. Congrats on getting some action, by the way._

_Sammy (10/17/2005 7:21am): Don’t know how much Ash told you, but his findings aren’t anything we need to worry about right this second. We’re all warded up, here. We’ll tell you everything when you guys are done with your conjugal break._

 

There are no more texts after that, despite the fact that Sam’s final message was over twenty-four hours previously. Dean’s anxiety thrums across the bond, and he drops his phone to the bed so he can scrub his palms over his face. “Alright, guess we’re going sooner rather than later. I’m going to go shower one last time, for _real_. You good to pick up around the room while I’m in there, make sure we’re ready to leave?”

It’s a simple enough task, so Castiel nods. “Of course. We can go as soon as you’re finished.”

“Great.” Dean gives him a quick kiss then retreats to the bathroom for his shower.

The room is fairly trashed, but easy to make presentable. He picks up a lamp that had at some point fallen over, gathers the dishes from their most recent meal into a single pile on the table. The bed covers get straightened, and a quick burst of grace purges them of all traces of the heat and rut Dean and Castiel had shared on top of them. By the time the shower turns off, Castiel has the room looking almost as clean as it did when they arrived.

Dean emerges from the bathroom moments later, his hair fluffed from the hasty attempt given to drying it, and a towel slung around his hips. There are a number of bruises scattered across the man’s skin, some in the clear shapes of desperate fingers, and others formed with teeth and lips. But while the lightest of these marks are all already healing and fading from sight—something Castiel would attribute to Dean’s steady transition toward angelhood, if he had to guess—the mating bite on his neck is still impossible to miss. All of Dean is beautiful, but that particular mark draws Castiel’s eye like a beacon and puts a smile on his lips.

He doesn’t think the novelty will ever wear off at the thought that Dean is _his_. That they are each other’s.

Dean catches an impression of this through the bond and smirks at the angel, but otherwise doesn’t comment. Instead, he glances around the room and laughs incredulously. “Did you really clean the room buck naked? Cas. What is it with you and the nudity, man?”

Castiel shrugs, but goes to retrieve his and Dean’s clothes from where they had been stashed in the closet, clean and neatly folded. He passes Dean his pile and they both dress, pulling on their jeans and slipping shirts over their heads in silence.

Once they’re done, they have no more reason to delay. Castiel takes Dean by the hand and spreads his wings.

~

Gabriel is waiting for them when they arrive. It’s a bit unsettling, actually, the way he stands in the center of Bobby’s living room with his hands on his hips, eyes fixing on Dean and Castiel the instant they land. It sends the seraph back to his fledgling days, when Gabriel more frequently played the role of Castiel’s parental figure.

Castiel sighs, recognizing what must have happened. “You set up a boundary-alarm around the room.”

Gabriel smiles and waggles his eyebrows. “Guilty. Needed to make sure nothing happened to my baby bro! Or my brother-in-law, for that matter.”

Dean makes a small sound of disbelief. “Christ, you’re my brother-in-law. I hadn’t even thought of it in those terms.” He raises his eyebrows, a spark of surprised amusement lighting the bond as he turns to face his mate. “Dude, God’s my father-in-law. What the fuck.”

“Oh boy, I would _pay_ to see that version of ‘meet the parents’,” Gabriel laughs. “Honestly, if good ol’ Dad was still picking up the phone, I’d arrange that in a _heartbeat_.”

Castiel winces, at both the reminder of his Father’s absence and the thought that, technically, Dean is correct. Gabe may joke, but the truth of it is that in another reality, one in which their Father was present, Dean might have had a chance to meet God. He probably would have had to, since eventually he’d be living in Heaven. For some reason, the thought of Dean speaking with the Lord makes Castiel nervous. There’s simply no way of predicting how such a scenario would play out, and any number of things could go wrong.

Is this how all humans feel about a ‘meet the parents’ situation? If so, Castiel has no idea how they ever go through with it.

Dean chuckles and bumps his shoulder into Cas’. “Babe, you are _way_ overthinking this. Chill out.”

Castiel just frowns back at him. It’s true, of course, but he hadn’t meant for so much of his thought process to leak over to Dean in the first place. He needs to get a better hold on himself, at least in the case of the useless, irrational thoughts like those.

“Holy shit,” Gabriel suddenly blurts, regaining the pair’s attention. “You dummies weren’t fully mated before this week, were you?”

“No,” Castiel confesses. Part of him is embarrassed to admit his ignorance to his big brother, but he firmly reminds himself that he _couldn’t_ have known. “Dean reciprocated the mating bite, and it bound us together fully. I believe it was best that it occurred this way anyway, after Dean went into heat and his senses were more attuned to angelic instincts.”

Gabriel nods along. “That’s probably how it happens for all of the human-angel mates, actually. You’re right, it makes the most sense. But hey, either way,” Gabriel comes forward and slaps a hand to each of their shoulders, beaming up at them, “congrats, guys. Now you just have to cross your fingers and hope you don’t make a fledgling. You used protection, right?”

Dean tenses. “Whoa, hold on—”

“Gabriel, that’s not a factor to be concerned about and you know it,” Castiel retorts, glaring at the archangel. He knows Gabriel only mentioned it to freak Dean out, and he doesn’t appreciate it. “A fledgling hasn’t been conceived in over a thousand years.”

Gabriel pulls a blank face and shrugs.

“Guys, really, what the hell are you talking about?” Dean demands, his agitation so thorough that it even begins to cloud his scent. “Do _not_ give me this bullshit—”

Castiel might actually kill his brother.

Before anyone can be killed, however, Bobby rushes into the room, his phone pressed to his ear and a dusty, Latin tome clutched in his free hand. He makes a beeline straight through the huddle in the middle of the room and heads for his desk. The tome is tossed to the side and promptly forgotten, and a map of the country then rolled out across the table’s surface. “Run those coordinates by me again, Ash?”

Castiel exchanges a look with Dean and Gabriel, and by unspoken agreement the three of them move to join Bobby, all thoughts of their previous discussion evaporating.

From the text messages, Castiel had assumed Ash’s findings had been harmless. What he now sees from Bobby implies the exact opposite of that notion.

Ash lists out a string of numbers, which Bobby then uses to locate a point on his map. His fingertip lands far too close to the dot marked _Sioux Falls_ for Cas’ liking.

Dean must feel the same way, because he looks up and asks Gabriel, “Where’s Sam?”

“He and Jess went on a beer run about an hour ago,” Gabriel replies, his mouth set in a hard line as he listens to Ash’s relaying of facts through the phone. Castiel is doing the same, and hears words like _omens_ , and _horde_. “I can go check on them, but they haven’t prayed to me.”

Dread forms a hard knot in Castiel’s stomach. He recognizes this, it has happened _before_ , damnit, in Palo Alto. He says to his brother, “Gabriel, find them. Now.”

Gabriel looks surprised by the authority in Castiel’s voice, but he knows his sole charge well enough to recognize that this is a scenario to be taken seriously. He vanishes in an instant, not bothering to ask questions.

Dean rounds on Cas, fear pouring out of him in droves. Even Bobby has now looked up from his map, Ash’s report still prattling on at his ear but going largely unheard. “Cas, what the hell is going on?”

“Dean, the last time demons made a move against Sam, they blocked prayer signals in all of Palo Alto. The only reason I knew it was happening was because we were in the immediate vicinity, but we aren’t nearly as close to the heart of town now as we were then.”

The way Dean’s face crumples when he catches Castiel’s meaning breaks the angel’s heart. “No. No, they can’t—”

Castiel instinctively reaches out to his mate, lessens the space between them in the hopes that he can soothe Dean’s pain in _some_ way. “We won’t know until Gabriel returns.”

Gabriel chooses that exact moment to reappear in the room, a bloodied and unconscious Jess held bridal-style in his arms. One look at his face conveys exactly what happened, but the archangel puts it into words anyway.

“Sam’s gone.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel half-expects Dean to immediately launch into a rage at the words, to shout at Gabriel and demand an explanation, to do something. It’s probably the fact that he expects irrationality that makes the silence he sees in its stead so painful to witness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I might have to offically just renege on that whole "new chapter every Monday" business. It's just not worth the guilt of failing every week. My apology for last week had been put [here](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/post/138553178845/to-anyone-keeping-up-with-for-every-alpha), if you want my excuses. Short of the story is, I wanted to focus on quality over speed, and needed the extra time. Throw in an essay for class about how gay Shakespeare was, and I needed every minute. SO. I'm going to _try_ to keep to a weekly upload schedule, but we might have to just roll with the punches, friends.
> 
> Also, special thanks to [Ari](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this chapter and making it even angstier than it was going to be. She deserves all the love and praise. <3
> 
> Now, without further ado, enjoy chapter 20.

Castiel half-expects Dean to immediately launch into a rage at the words, to shout at Gabriel and demand an explanation, to do _something_. It’s probably the fact that he _expects_ irrationality that makes the silence he sees in its stead so painful to witness. The bond is wound tight, Dean’s emotions roiling and contorting into a shape that’s impossible for the angel to determine as of yet.

Bobby is the one to ask, his voice noticeably gruffer and more subdued than usual, “What the fuck happened out there?”

Gabriel turns away from them with a sigh, moving to carefully deposit Jess’ limp form on the couch. He brushes a hand across her face, sweeping aside a few errant strands of hair. There is now less blood on her clothes than there was an instant ago, but still far more than there should be.

“Prayer channels were blocked for about a three mile radius around the store they went to,” Gabriel says flatly. His eyes don’t leave Jess, but from the tense line of his shoulders, Cas can still see how hard this defeat hits him. “There was black magic absolutely everywhere. I’ll do what I can for Jess.”

“What do you mean ‘Sam’s gone’?” Dean demands, quietly but with force. He takes an unsteady step toward Gabriel, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

Gabriel turns to look at him, staring at Dean blankly for a long moment. Sadness and sympathy bleed into his expression, but Gabriel being Gabriel, both are swiftly concealed under a fine layer of rage. “What I _mean_ ,” he says harshly, glaring at the omega, “is that _Sam_ is _gone_. Azazel got him; he’s won. He has the leader for his army now, and chances are, we’re all boned because of it. They outsmarted us, Dean. That’s it.”

Dean’s jaw clenches tightly, but he doesn’t respond. He returns Gabriel’s dark look until the archangel gives it up and turns back to Jess, scooping the woman back up into his arms again. “I’m taking her upstairs to a bed. I’ll let you know when she wakes up.” And then they’re both gone.

The silence in his absence seems somehow thicker than before, a fact probably not helped by the intensity of Dean’s emotions clouding the air, accompanied by an acrid scent. Every piece of his soul is crying out in distress, to the point that even Castiel, his _mate_ , wants to gag in the face of it. It’s _too much_ , and it’s _wrong_.

It shouldn’t have come to this.

Castiel takes a cautious step toward Dean, but the moment he tries to touch him, his mate jerks away and spits, “ _Don’t_.”

“Dean, I know—”

“No you don’t!” Dean whirls to face Castiel, every bit of him contorted with anger, heartbreak, and bitterness. The bond, his scent, even his soul itself—lurking behind eyes more gold than green—have all gone so dark in the span of mere minutes. “He has my _brother_ , Cas! He has my _dad_. Damnit, Cas, _he has both of them_! It’s just—”

A mostly-empty beer bottle gets picked up from a table and hurled against a wall. The brown glass shatters and rains down onto the wood floor, shards being lost within the stacks of books there.

Bobby has been watching all of this unfold in silence, a resigned sort of devastation in his eyes. In even just the quick glance Castiel spares him, the jagged depth of the emotion puts a new sort of pain in the angel’s heart. One tied to his family, not just his mate. Bobby Singer is like a father to Dean and Sam, and in the short time he has known Castiel, he has extended the seraph equal kindness. He’s a good man.

The pain and burden Bobby bears right now, however, is in an entirely different scope than that which Castiel has learned to associate him with. There’s no gleam of compassion, no hope.

In the silence that follows the breaking of the bottle, he turns and walks out of the room, slowing his path only for as long as it takes to pat Castiel on the shoulder in a half-hearted show of support. Castiel hears the man’s footsteps retreat down the hallway and then down a flight of stairs into the basement.

In that moment, Castiel realizes just how desperate the situation at hand is.

His family is breaking.

Dean glares at the wet blotch the residual contents of the beer bottle had left upon the wall, still trembling with the force of his emotions. The angel can _feel_ his mate struggling to hold back from throwing something else, hurling objects as he works through his rage, continuing until the room is destroyed. His scent roils around him, so dark and potent it’s almost visible, and his hands are fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough that it must be painful. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Bobby’s departure, and he doesn’t react when Cas moves closer to him.

“Dean.”

Dean shakes his head, but doesn’t respond.

“Dean, please. Will you at least look at me?”

It’s a small request, but it is all Castiel is willing to ask of his mate right now. Dean is already on the verge of shattering apart, and Castiel doesn’t want to be the final straw.

Dean just shakes his head again, doesn’t turn around. His voice cracks when he whispers, “This is my fault.”

Castiel frowns. “Why would you be responsible for this? Dean. You can’t be serious.”

“You don’t get it, Cas. I’ve been looking after that kid since the day he was born. We _knew_ Azazel was after him, but I still let him out of my sights. I take my eye off of him for _one minute_ and—” He turns then, his eyes wet with unshed tears when they finally meet Castiel’s. “I failed him, Cas. I wasn’t there. This is my fault.” Speaking the words seems to harden his resolve, so he says them again, louder than before. “It’s my fault, Cas, it’s all my fault!”

Castiel’s heart aches, and he feels Dean’s guilt and sorrow jolt through the bond, piercing the angel to his core. In an instant, any ideas he had about giving Dean space disintegrate. He closes the distance between the two of them and pulls Dean into a crushing hug, wrapping him securely in both arms and swiftly-manifested wings.

Dean resists at first, remains tense and uncomfortable in Cas’ hold, but then the fight leaves him all at once, and he crumples against the angel. He presses his face into Castiel’s neck and finally cracks, silent tears quickly saturating the collar of Castiel’s shirt. His terror and fury and self-blame leak out of him like black ink, thick and toxic and tangible.

Castiel soaks it all in without a word. His own body echoes it back, having no choice but to join his mate in mourning. He holds Dean to him as he’s pulled into his mate’s bubble of grief, and it becomes his own.

“Sam isn’t lost, Dean,” Castiel soothes in a murmur a few minutes later, rubbing one hand across the omega’s back and threading the other into the back of his hair. The angel can’t be sure if the words are true or not, but what he lacks in certainty he makes up for in conviction. He won’t _let_ Sam be lost. “We’ll find him. We’ll get him back, I swear it.”

Dean presses his face further into Cas’ neck. He breathes shakily, subconsciously nosing at the alpha’s mating bite. He’s hardly supporting his own weight anymore, depending primarily on Castiel to hold him upright now that the adrenaline from his initial outburst is wearing off.

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel whispers. “No matter what happens, it isn’t your fault.”

A sob catches in Dean’s throat, and a low whine escapes around it. If Castiel weren’t already heartbroken, that sound alone would have done the job.

He swallows around the lump in his own throat and tries to focus his grace, preparing to attempt something that he hasn’t in millennia.

 ** _I don’t often ask things of you, but…_** Castiel presses himself closer to his mate, closing his eyes tightly to fight back the swell of tears that threaten to overwhelm him. **_Please, Father. Don’t let Sam Winchester be lost._**

As could only have been expected, his Father remains silent.

This may be the worst that silence has ever hurt.

~

Jess wakes a couple of hours later. As soon as she’s conscious, she screams for Sam.

Gabriel tries to keep her calm, tries to convince her to stay in the bedroom until she’s regained her bearings after the damage the demons inflicted during their attack—being severely wounded with the aid of black magic and then miraculously healed again is a swing human physiology is not prepared to process instantaneously—but she disregards him. She stumbles her way out of the bedroom and down the stairs to where Dean and Castiel sit on the couch in the living room, the former staring vacantly at the floor while the latter tries to support him with his presence.

Jess demands to know what happened. It’s obvious from her horrified expression that she already knows, and the silence that meets her questions is all the answer she needs. When she collapses to the ground, Dean leaves the couch for the first time since his mate steered him onto it.

He scoops Jess into his arms and holds her as she cries.

~

They eventually get a story from Jess, once the initial hysteria has calmed some. The mood is somber when the group gathers to listen to her speak. Aside from the necessary giving of information, no one has much of anything to say.

Sam and Jess had driven into the main part of town to buy groceries and beer. Sam wasn’t going to be allowed to go at first, the risk of sending him out being too great, but he’d pleaded and sweet-talked until Bobby and Gabriel had allowed him to go. In the time that Dean and Castiel had been away, the archangel had made sure that Bobby’s property and its inhabitants were well-warded against the Infernal Host. Sam had predicted he would be out for an hour, maybe two—it shouldn’t have been long enough for there to be a problem.

The couple had already visited a supermarket to get the basics when they made the decision to split up, Jess going into a liquor store while Sam placed a lunch order to-go at the diner next door.

Jess came out when she heard screaming. By then, a squad of demons was already wreaking havoc, attacking civilians and encouraging mass panic. The diner was on fire. Sam was nowhere to be seen. A pair of demons came at Jess, one holding hex bags etched with unrecognizable rune work, and she remembers nothing after that.

When Jess finishes relaying her side of the story, Dean drops his head into his hands, but doesn’t comment. Castiel takes it upon himself to ask, “What was it that Ash had found, while we were gone?”

“It was a false trail,” Gabriel replies. “Strong set of omens, looked like Azazel. It carved a path through the western half of South Dakota and then turned south, away from us. It was a decoy. Lulled us into a false sense of security. He must have clued into the fact that we’ve been tracking them all after you found him last.”

Dean shakes his head bitterly. “This is why he shouldn’t have left,” he says, to no one in particular. “And he said he had that stupid _vision_ , why would he even go _in_ a diner? That dumb bastard.”

Jess huffs quietly. “Yeah.”

They sit in silence for a while after that.

~

Despite Ash’s best searches in the days following, there are zero new omens hinting at where Azazel may now be hidden. In fact, there are no signs of demonic activity at all; Bobby’s monitoring the hunter network as best he can, but none of his contacts are reporting anything relevant.

None of the other hunters know what the situation is, of course. Jess had initially argued for a full manhunt to be carried out—Bobby’s contacts, the Campbells, and any other hunters they could scrounge up leading the charge—but between Castiel and Gabriel, they had managed to talk her out of it. Involving more people would only muddy the situation, they reasoned. A group any larger than what they have presently would be difficult to effectively manage, as well as serve to provide even more targets for Azazel, once the inevitable next phase of his plan begins.

It’s quiet in Bobby’s house. Gabriel is hardly around, searching for Azazel through Heaven’s channels as he is, and none of the three humans are anywhere close to their normal selves. Bobby has a glass of liquor in his hand near constantly. He throws himself into research, often studying the same materials again and again in hopes of uncovering something he missed the first time. Jess is almost always at his side when he fails, resiliently working in tandem with the older man and taking over when necessary. They rarely exchange more than a few words during their labors, Castiel has observed. And even then, their conversations are strictly work related.

And Dean? Well.

Dean doesn’t speak at all.

Castiel tried, at first. Tried to get something out of him, to pull him away from the all-consuming despair he fell into after the loss of Sam, but it was useless. Something broke inside of him. The angel gets one or two-word answers when he’s lucky, sometimes a greeting, but never more. The emptiness of those acknowledgments matches the bitterly stale withdrawal that has now practically become a permanent part of Dean’s scent.

When Dean isn’t lending a hand in Bobby and Jess’ searches for information, his favorite hiding place is out among the scraps of broken down cars that make up the salvage yard. He’s taken to sitting on the roofs or hoods of vehicles far away from the house, sometimes even in a front seat or just on the ground next to a back tire—always ending up coated in dust and dirt. When he’s inside, he tends to avoid the other two humans.

The only consolation in his routine of self-imposed isolation is that he allows Castiel to sit by his side through it all. Dean doesn’t say it out loud—of course—but Cas knows that just his presence soothes the ache that permeates the entirety of Dean’s being. The pain that regularly colors the bond dulls when his mate is next to him, becomes just a bit less blinding.

It’s not perfect, but it’s better than it could be.

Dean still largely blames himself for the whole situation, despite Castiel’s constant assurances that the feeling is unfounded. As time wears on, however, Castiel becomes more and more convinced that it’s _his own_ fault. How different would the circumstances of Sam’s kidnapping have been if it weren’t for the angel’s intervention in Dean’s life? What would it have been like if Dean hadn’t been pulled away from his brother by the onset of a heat?

Sometimes Castiel’s thoughts stray in this self-destructive direction when the silence stretches on for too long. When it happens, when the melancholy stems from both ends of the bond instead of just one, Dean always leans into Cas’ side with a little more force. Always reinforces his presence and shows his support.

For nearly two weeks, they’re listless. They have nothing to go on, nowhere to go. None of them like being helpless, and the misery is palpable.

It’s day before the two week mark when Gabriel flies into the bedroom where Castiel and Dean are tucked away. Dean is lying under the cover of his mate’s wing and halfway to a nap when Castiel sits up against the wall beside him. One look from Gabriel, though, has the seraph standing from the bed, much to his omega’s displeasure. Castiel drops a kiss to Dean’s forehead, and then wordlessly follows his brother out of the house to speak.

“I’m going to warn you now,” Gabriel says when they reach the center of the scrapyard surrounding Bobby’s house, far enough away not to be overheard even accidentally, “you aren’t going to like this.”

Castiel frowns, but squares his shoulders. “If you have anything at all, it will be worth it.”

Gabriel gives him a tight smile, and Castiel’s stomach drops. He knows that face. He knows what his brother looks like when he’s on the verge of panic.

“Gabriel,” he prompts, steeling himself for the worst. “What did you find?”

“It’s not so much that I _found_ something,” the archangel clarifies. One of his wings twitches sharply. “But I know where _you_ can find information.”

The sinking feeling in Cas’ gut intensifies. He has a bad feeling about where this may be going. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Gabe sighs. “Uriel. We suspected that that son of a bitch might be in on this somehow, right? Well, I set a tail on him, wanted to see what he was getting up to when he wasn’t kissing Michael’s ass or sucking Zachariah’s dick.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose, fighting back the horrible mental images that his brother’s particular word choices call to mind. “Gabriel, please—”

“Oh, it’s accurate and you know it,” Gabriel retorts, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “Point is, my sources say that Uriel’s been spending an awful lot of time down here on the earthly plane, and not much of what he does can be traced. Last time he was here, Hannah tracked him to an area with known demonic activity. He’s working with them, Cassie, I’d stake my wings on it.”

Castiel nods slowly, taking this in. “Okay. But we already came to the conclusion that Uriel must be one of the culprits. I don’t see how now knowing for sure changes anything. There still isn’t enough evidence to have him tried, so there’s nothing we can do.”

“About that…”

Castiel’s frown returns in full force. “What.”

“So what if,” Gabriel starts, already looking shifty as he subtly lowers his wings in an attempt to appear less commanding, more friendly. “What if I were to say that Uriel needs to be interrogated? If we can just get him to talk—”

“You can’t do that,” Castiel interrupts sharply. “It’s not worth the risk. No matter what Hannah told you, your evidence is too circumstantial to convince Michael to let you at Uriel, and attacking a member of another division will be more than enough means for punishment. A removal of your title, even.”

“That’s why I’m not going to be the one to do it.”

That brings Castiel up short. “You want me to interrogate Uriel.”

Gabriel shrugs. He’s become more confident in his argument as it has progressed, not that that is much consolation to Castiel. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy,” he admits, “but I know you’re more than capable. I would give the task to someone else, but you’re my second. There’s no one I trust more.”

Castiel shakes his head in disbelief, struggling to process the request of treason coming from his superior. It’s dangerous, incredibly so. Any unwarranted act of violence against one angel from another—especially to the degree of capture and torture—is grounds for some of the worst punishment Heaven can dole out.

Death, if the ruling court is feeling merciful, eternal imprisonment if not. A forced fall from grace would not be out of the question, either.

Gabriel knows this. Castiel knows this. They’ve both seen it happen.

And yet.

“Are you sure Uriel will be able to provide us with relevant information?” Castiel asks after a prolonged silence. “You truly believe he can lead us to Sam?”

Gabriel worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, a tic that betrays his desire for a candy to channel his concern into. Eventually the confession comes, “I’m not sure. I can’t be sure of anything right now. But I’ve been busting ass for a week now, and this is the best shot we’ve got.” He adds after a brief pause, “This is the best shot _Sam’s_ got.”

“Alright.” Cas takes a deep breath, tries to shake some of the tension out of his wings. “I’ll do it. I imagine I’ll have to take him from Heaven, correct? Right out from under Michael and Zachariah’s noses.”

“Basically, yeah.”

“It’s possible… that he may not survive. Even if the rest of the plan goes successfully, there would be no other way to avoid the consequences, for either of us.”

“I know.”

Castiel will have to kill Uriel, they both know that; the other angel’s death is not a possibility, but a certainty. Gabriel understands, he is sure, but of all the details they’ve discussed, this statement in particular needs to be ambiguously worded.

If Gabriel is ever questioned by Michael, he needs to maintain a degree of plausible deniability.

Which means that, for the most part, Castiel will be carrying this out on his own.

Gabriel steps forward and grasps Castiel by the shoulder, giving his little brother a weighted look. “No pressure, but the fate of the world might depend on this mission. Just a reminder.”

Castiel swallows around a lump in his throat. “That’s reassuring,” he says flatly. “Thank you.”

“I do my best.” Gabriel smirks, stepping away again. He tips his head back and looks skyward for a moment, like he’s listening to another one of their brethren. After a few seconds, he turns back to Cas and adds, “You’ll probably want to head up within the next 24 hours or so. Uriel’s flighty, but we know he should be on an assignment within that timeframe, at the very least. An absence may be more easily concealed if you do this right. Don’t waste your chance, Cassie, because you might not get another one before it’s too late.”

Between one blink and the next, Castiel is alone in the scrapyard. He sighs and starts back toward the house.

It would be best to leave right away, he reasons as he walks. If Uriel is predicted to be trackable within a window of twenty-four hours, it is implied that there is some time before he is expected to be anywhere in particular, or meet with anyone. Castiel should have enough time to get the answers he needs before Uriel’s absence is investigated.

He isn’t sure how Dean will react when he tells him what he’s going to do, however. He almost doesn’t want to tell him.

He imagines his family will probably be okay with kidnapping and torture if it means getting to Sam, but at the same time, Dean’s protective streak runs a mile wide. There is incredible risk to Castiel’s plan of action, which his mate will undoubtedly be displeased by. Even if he knows Uriel needs to be questioned, Castiel wouldn’t be surprised if Dean attempts to lobby for another angel to undertake the interrogation.

But, as Gabriel said, that isn’t an option. No one else can be trusted with the task.

They need to find Sam. There’s no room for failure.

Castiel tries to get a grip on his growing anxiety on the matter, and steps through the front door of the house. He’s on the verge of ascending the stairs to Dean’s room when he senses his mate in the living room instead, and slows his pace. Jess is with him, and as far as Castiel is aware, the two have not yet been alone together once in the time since Sam was taken until now.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” is the first thing Castiel hears. He pauses in his path into the room, suddenly waiting with bated breath for a response he isn’t sure will come.

After a beat, Dean replies, “For what?”

It takes no thought at all for Cas to decide to continue eavesdropping. This is already more promising than anything he’s managed to get from his mate all week, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to risk ruining that progress by interrupting now.

“For pitching a fit about Azazel,” Jess says on a sigh. Castiel doesn’t have to see her to know that her expression is weary, yet probably earnest as well, given the nature of her words. “About John. Getting a head start, or whatever it is that I said. Getting in the first strike ourselves might have been nice, but after what I saw in town? Azazel was more than ready for us. We wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Dean’s response is limited to a soft, “Yeah.”

“Really though, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to piss you off as much as I did, and I didn’t mean to put you or Cas down like I did. I was worried for—for Sam…” Castiel hears her breath hitch, “But it was uncalled for. Gabriel said that I essentially triggered you into… you know. You don’t even _know_ how bad I feel about that.”

“Nah,” Dean scoffs lightly. “From what Cas says, that was bound to happen eventually anyway. It wasn’t your fault. No hard feelings, Jess. Promise.”

Jess hums. “You know you can only bullshit me so far, right, Dean? I’m pre-med. Angel physiology or not, I know the basics of how the body works, how limits are reached and broken. Whether it was happening already or not, I know for a fact that I was the trigger. But… Still. Thanks for not holding it against me. It means a lot.”

There’s the quiet sound of fabric shifting as bodies move, and it almost manages to swallow Dean’s whispered, “No problem.”

Figuring he’s listened in for long enough, Castiel takes the final few steps into the living room. Dean and Jess are seated on the floor in front of the couch, an array of papers and open books spread in front of them. Jess is turned into Dean’s side, her arms around him in a tight hug and her face pressed into his shoulder. Dean is tentatively returning the embrace, but once he sees his mate standing at the mouth of the room, he pats Jess on the back and drops his arms away. He clears his throat and says, “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel smiles back at him, despite the weight that presses at his chest. He’s glad to see Dean livening up again slightly, for the buoyancy returning to his scent and relieving the strain in the bond. For an instant, with the green-gold of Dean’s eyes brighter than they’ve been in days, the angel almost forgets about his nerves.

Almost.

Dean picks up on it, of course, though whether it’s the bond or Cas’ shifting scent which gives him away is impossible to determine. Dean frowns, his brow wrinkling with the force of it. “You okay?”

Castiel sighs. Before he can figure out where to begin his answer, Jess says, “Oh, shit. That’s not a good face. Should we get Bobby in here, too?”

Castiel considers for a moment, then nods. “It would be best to keep everyone informed. Would you please fetch him?”

Jess is out of the room in a matter of seconds, darting to the basement door and down the staircase on swift, sock-padded feet. While they wait for her to return, Dean watches Castiel with growing concern, but he doesn’t say anything. Castiel has to fight the urge to fidget. He would pace, if it were his style.

It’s not long before Jess reenters the room, Bobby at her heels. She settles herself back down next to Dean on the floor while Bobby stands next to them both, arms crossed and face stoic as he waits to hear the cause of his interruption.

All eyes are on Castiel. He takes only a second to steel himself before cutting right to the point.

“As far as Gabriel can tell,” he says, “Uriel, the seraph who was my replacement in Michael’s division after my transfer, is, in fact, working with demons. As such, he may be able to direct us toward Azazel. The only means of getting information from him is for me to find him in Heaven, and then interrogate him using whatever means necessary.”

Dean frowns, wariness seeping into the bond. Bobby says, “Somethin’ tells me this ain’t as straightforward as you’re making it sound.”

“It’s not,” Castiel confesses. If he’s being honest about his mission, he may as well be so thoroughly. “There’s incredible risk in going after any other angel, and Uriel is a force to be reckoned with. But that does not change the fact that there is no alternative.”

There’s a second of silence, and then Dean says, “Take me with you.”

Cas blinks at his mate in surprise. “Dean, I can’t take you with me.”

Dean frowns. “Why not?”

“Because it’s extremely dangerous. I have to infiltrate Heaven and abduct a high-ranking seraph, and that’s only in preparation for the interrogation itself. There is much that could go wrong, Dean. If I am discovered at any point—”

“But _why_ can’t you take me along? All I’m hearing are a whole lot of excuses, Cas.”

“Because—” Castiel snaps his jaw shut before the rest of that sentence can escape. He can’t take Dean to Heaven because _Michael_ will be there. Because many angels are nothing if not horrible elitists, viewing humans as nothing more than animals in the mud. Castiel doesn’t want his mate subjected to that discrimination and hate, not now or ever.

Some of this must make it through the bond, because Dean’s determination only hardens. “I don’t care about any of that other shit,” he says. “All I care about is getting my brother back, and if there’s something I can do to make sure that happens, you bet your ass I’m doing it. You’re probably going to have to do some poking around in Heaven to find this dick anyway, right?” When Cas nods, he continues, “Alright, then I’m your in. You go back up there for the first time in weeks, no reason why, and then your replacement turns up dead? You’re the prime suspect. If you take me, you can at least say that you’re showing me around, or introducing me to your pals, or whatever the hell. Unless you want to get caught, you need an alibi, and I’m the closest thing you’ve got.”

The worst part of it all is, Castiel knows he’s right. Returning for the first time only to have Uriel be abducted and killed within the same timeframe will be suspicious enough, and the last thing he needs is to be caught and put to trial.

Dean is his mate, and angel enough to be fine taking a trip to Heaven. The logic is sound.

Dean is grinning before Castiel even voices his decision, too attuned with the angel not to know victory when he sees it.

Castiel sighs and nods once. “We’ll leave within the hour.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel clears his throat, unsure how to begin this. He is aware of Dean hedging a bit closer to him, almost hiding himself behind the arch of a midnight black wing, and the appendage twitches with a desire to conceal him fully. Both movements immediately draw the cherub’s attention, his dark eyes flicking rapidly between the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um.. Hello. Been a while, yeah? Time seems to have.. gotten away from me. To those of you who have left comments/asked me what the hell has been going on: Thanks, you helped me get my ass in gear. To those of you who haven't, a recap: Writer's block, no time to work, a personal crisis or three. This chapter is incredibly important for the entirety of this universe, so it had to be done right, which is why I didn't try to just force something out.
> 
> Still, I am so so very incredibly sorry. Hope this is worth the wait, next chapter should be on schedule. 
> 
> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> UPDATE, 4/10/18: So, funny story. I found 1.3k for this chapter sitting in a draft in a google doc, and... I have no idea why I didn't include it. There's so many awesome tidbits in it, so much new detail for this verse--I don't know what the hell was happening when I tossed it out and went with an abbreviated opening instead of this one. Honestly. So, to commit the worst retcon I've ever committed in this verse (which is saying something, because I've definitely done it before).... Here's a new version of chapter 21, now with a new intro! Everything up until the first ~ is new. Not sure how best to get the word out, but hey! New content! If you're reading this--enjoy. And thanks for putting up with me.

“Cas, this doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Dean, please. As the saying goes, ‘humor me’.”

“But _Cas_ —”

“Then don’t go with me.”

Dean stops and glares, his arms tangled in the clean, black t-shirt that he is in the process of putting on. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “What wouldn’t I dare? To leave you here where it’s safe, while I undertake a dangerous mission into the last place in creation where I want you to be? Are you sure about that?”

Dean rolls his eyes, but finishes pulling the shirt over his head. His jeans have already been switched for a pair not stiff with dirt or bearing holes from wear, and his boots brushed reasonably clean. He tugs on a pale green overshirt as well, the sleeves of which he immediately rolls to his elbows, though he looks thoroughly annoyed all the while. “Whatever. _There_. I’m presentable now, are you happy?”

“It’s not about being presentable, Dean,” Cas corrects him with a frown. “That was never the issue. I only suspect that you’ll be more comfortable wearing clean clothes. You have to understand, the moment we cross Heaven’s borders, our every move will be scrutinized. They’re not used to seeing humans walk among them, and as long as you are with _me_ , there is no way our presence is going to be ignored. The novelty we pose alone will draw other angels to us.”

For a moment, Dean’s shoulders slump and he scowls at the floor. It concerns Castiel, but before he can again offer his mate the chance to change his mind and stay behind, the omega scrubs his hands across his face, squares his shoulders, and plasters on a too-tight smile that would almost be convincing, if not for the trepidation still seeping into the bond.

“That’s alright,” Dean says, the words clearly meant more for himself than for Castiel. “We got this. I’m sure of it. All we need to do is find one angel, right? How hard could it be?”

Castiel appreciates the bravado, but doesn’t bother answering the question. In all likelihood, it will be _very_ hard, especially while also maintaining the required level of secrecy. Saying this aloud would only serve to crush what confidence Dean has managed to pull together, however, so he dodges the topic all together and asks, “Are you ready to go?”

“I’m ready when you are.”

Since they’ve already let Bobby and Jess know they’d be leaving, Castiel sees no need for further delay. He reasons that it’s best not to wait anyway, because waiting means he has even more time to dwell on all of the ways the trip can go wrong, and Father knows he’s already doing enough of that. He strides forward, takes Dean’s hand in his own, then spreads his wings and flies before he can second guess himself any more.

There’s a shift in reality once they cross the line between realms and into Heaven. It’s subtle, hardly more than a change in the distribution of energy, but it makes Castiel’s grace buzz in a way that it doesn’t when he’s on Earth. His connection to the Host’s energy is uninhibited here, and he instantly finds that he’s missed it. He’s never been away for so long.

Not that that’s reason enough to regret his time on Earth, of course. Distance from home is a small price to pay for the relationship he now gets to have with Dean, and one which he would gladly pay a dozen times over.

Castiel deliberates for a fraction of a second over where to land himself and Dean before they head for Michael’s divisional headquarters, and settles on an out-of-the-way, neutral location partway between the Garden and the trio of buildings that act as the archangels’ offices. They are near enough to the city for Cas to be able to see a number of his brethren flying to and fro across the sprawling urban area, but they are still isolated enough to not have to worry about seen or overheard.

As soon as he has his bearings after landing, Dean’s head sets itself on a constant swivel, looking everywhere and taking in as much as he can. He opens and closes his mouth several times like he can’t quite decide what to say about what he sees. Eventually, he settles on, “Damn. Place looks like what I’d imagine Rome as back in its heyday.”

“It has its similarities,” Castiel agrees, following his mate’s gaze toward the white, marble structures visible in the distance. “Coinciding with Rome’s founding and subsequent development, Heaven was in a period of disarray—a faction of the Infernal Host nearly succeeded in overturning Heaven’s command, which scared some. The stylization of Rome and similar ancient civilizations reflects the influence of those who fell, or even merely took refuge on Earth during that time.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean breathes. He shakes his head absently, his eyes still caught jumping from detail to detail. “You guys really are everywhere, aren’t you?” He finally turns to Castiel then, and asks with a raised eyebrow, “You’ve got to be keeping up with some of the advancements being made on Earth, right? Modern technology, plumbing—the works.”

“Those who desire such things have them, but not many of us have need for human trivialities in our personal lives.” Cas thinks for a moment of the Spartan accommodations his own home has to offer, and abruptly feels inadequate. Every angel’s nest is a reflection of the wants and needs of their grace, malleable in the way a human’s heaven is, and Castiel has never had a reason to need more than he has. For lack of anything more substantial to say on the subject, he adds, “Gabriel has a foosball table. He claims it’s one of his most prized possessions.”

Dean chuckles. “‘Course he does. I’m not even surprised.” He finally turns to Castiel then, his expression quickly turning serious. “So. How are we doing this?”

Castiel sighs. “Our first stop will be Michael’s building. If Uriel isn’t there, we’ll have to continue our search elsewhere.”

“You have an idea of what we’re gonna tell everyone we’re doing in Michael’s building when they ask?”

“Are you sure they’ll ask?”

“Maybe. Probably. But even if they don’t, we should have a cover story. Is there someone specific you can say you’re looking for? Someone who’d give you an excuse to wander around a bit, sniff Uriel out without being obvious about it?”

“There are not many of my brothers or sisters who I am close with.”

“Oh my god, don’t say that. It’s depressing as hell, and I don’t like it.”

He’s not wrong. Castiel frowns. “Then what would you suggest?”

Dean folds his arms across his chest and drums his fingertips against his bicep. “What about a work-related excuse?” he eventually pitches. “Is there anyone you can say you need to discuss something with? If we play our cards right, maybe we could use that as an opportunity to get even _more_ info while we’re up here.”

Castiel cocks his head as he considers that. “Perhaps…”

“Perhaps..?”

It takes another moment for Castiel to commit enough to the idea the has forming to say it aloud. “Perhaps we could seek out Balthazar. Technically he’s in Raphael’s division, but he spends a good deal of time with both Michael and Gabriel’s divisions. He’s something of a special consultant, due to his extended knowledge of weapons of each of the realms.”

Dean considers this for a moment, then nods. “I think we can work with that. We good, then? We just gonna go for it, or do you have any more of a game plan?”

“I have an idea of how to find Balthazar,” Cas says, “and our mission shouldn’t be too difficult once we have that as an excuse to be roaming the building. It likely won’t deter other angels from wanting to speak with us, but it will give us a purpose, as you’re suggesting.”

“Then that sounds good to me.” Dean shrugs, then flashes his mate a wide smile. “So. Let’s tear this place up, babe.”

Cas’ lips twitch. “Let’s.”

~

The cherub whose desk is located just inside the door of Michael’s building blinks at them when they enter through the glass double-doors, his jaw slightly agape and white wings fluffed with surprise. “…Castiel?”

Castiel clears his throat, unsure how to begin this. He is aware of Dean hedging a bit closer to him, almost hiding himself behind the arch of a midnight black wing, and the appendage twitches with a desire to conceal him fully. Both movements immediately draw the cherub’s attention, his dark eyes flicking rapidly between the two of them. “Hello, Elyon. This is Dean, my mate. We’re hoping to find Balthazar. Do you know if he’s here today?”

Elyon stares at Castiel and Dean blankly for a moment longer, then abruptly snaps back to full awareness. “Yes, I believe Balthazar is here today,” he says primly, although his professional front is tarnished by the way his eyes are still caught lingering on Dean in unabashed wonder. “Though… Are you sure you would not prefer to first meet with Michael, or Zachariah? This seems like—I mean, they might like to meet your mate as well. Neither is in at the moment, but I can probably help you arrange something.”

The thought of possibly having to introduce Dean to Michael so soon is a terrifying one, and Castiel has to fight not to appear as unsettled by Elyon’s offer as he is. He dons a smile that he doubts looks any more authentic than it feels and says, “Thank you for the offer, Elyon, but that won’t be necessary. Dean and I are operating on a time limit, so locating Balthazar is our priority.”

Elyon looks skeptical, but nods once and starts shuffling papers on his desk in an attempt to look busy. It would have worked, too, if his wings weren’t overly stiff in what can only be an effort to contain his excitement. He bids Dean and Castiel goodbye as they advance through the lobby, but Castiel doesn’t wait around long enough to return it.

He recognized that gleam in Elyon’s brown eyes too well to want to stick around. He was the very image of a cherub with a story to tell, the scandalous news waiting on the tip of his tongue to be shared with every member of the Host who will listen. Castiel should have known this would happen. But given everything else he has weighing on his mind at the moment, he hadn’t even thought to worry about what incorrigible gossips his brothers and sisters are.

“Dude,” Dean whispers once they’ve put some distance between themselves and Elyon. It’s likely the most privacy they’ll have from here until their mission is complete. “Angel secretaries? Really?”

“Elyon is an excellent warrior,” Cas corrects, just as quietly. An angel’s hearing is not as exceptional in Heaven as it is on Earth, but that doesn’t mean their discussion needs to be projected any more than is necessary. “His placement makes him the first line of defense in the event of an incursion. Flight is prohibited within this building, making that door the primary entrance.” They’re nearing the main workroom now, so he uses his last seconds to warn his mate, “I suspect everyone in the building knows we’re here by now. Prepare yourself.”

Dean groans and mutters, “Son of a bitch,” under his breath, and then they’re entering the office’s grand, central room and there’s no time to be anything less than completely focused.

A handful of seraphs and several dozen cherubs are already watching for their entrance. None of them are much better than Elyon had been at concealing his blatant interest, regardless of their half-formed efforts.

Castiel steels himself and starts across the room, aware of Dean following at his heels. He’s always hated this—hated the societal pressure, the expectations tied to every angel and their relationship status. Now, he finds he hates it even more for Dean’s sake than his own. Dean may be his mate, but that hardly means that he deserves this level of scrutiny.

Neither of their mating bites are visible—some couples prefer them to be obvious, others don’t—and Castiel has a hard time deciding whether that’s a good thing or not right now. On one hand, it prohibits staring directly at the intimate mark of their bond. Conversely, it also means everything _else_ gets stared at and analyzed, picked apart for every possible meaning.

Dean’s very presence is telling of their mated status, of course, both for the simple matter of being allowed in Heaven and for the connection he clearly has with his alpha counterpart. No human has been in Michael’s divisionary headquarters possibly ever; it’s unprecedented.

Furthermore, to anyone who knows Castiel—and there are many of them, thanks to his high-ranking position within the Host—the shift in his basic scent will be incredibly apparent. Even without Dean at his side, the human who smells like an omega, Castiel would not be able to hide his mated status.

**_Cas?_ **

Castiel’s steps falter briefly halfway across the room, but he recovers fairly smoothly. The communication across the bond startled him; he hadn’t expected Dean to figure out how to initiate it himself yet. But then, he supposes that the stress of the situation is more than adequate motivation to push him into it. Still, Castiel is impressed, and doesn’t hesitate to return the communication, strengthening the connection.

**_Yes, Dean?_ **

There’s a burst of shaky relief across the bond, like Dean hadn’t expected his method to succeed. He asks, his attention clearly on the many angels surrounding them, **_Are these guys always such nosy assholes?_**

Castiel has to fight to contain his smile. No need for anyone to see _that_. **_Unfortunately, yes._**

 ** _Great._** There’s a pause, then Dean continues, **_So where are we gonna find Uriel? Does he have a desk or something we can check? Balthazar’s name worked for getting us in the door, but we should probably do some actual work, now._**

 ** _It did,_** Castiel admits, **_though I figure we can also actually speak with Balthazar, so that’s where we’re heading. As for Uriel, he was promoted to my previous position within this division. However, we won’t be able to check his personal workspace without raising too much suspicion—it’s too close to Michael’s office. My hope is that he will be away from his desk, or that we can otherwise determine if he’s here or not, since Gabriel is under the impression he is working on a particular assignment right now._**

Behind him, Dean lets out a soft sound of amusement. **_So if I’m understanding this correctly—you actually have no clue where this guy is._**

**_None at all._ **

Dean sighs, but doesn’t otherwise respond. Cas can’t say he blames him.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take as long as Castiel feared it would to spot Balthazar near the far end of the room, evidently the only angel oblivious to the newly-mated couples’ entrance. His attention is otherwise occupied, lounging across an omega cherub’s desk as he is, white wings lifted in shameless invitation. The cherub, for her part, stares back at him impassively, her own wings folded primly behind her back. She’s not quite scowling, but it’s a near thing.

Why Balthazar is even trying is beyond Castiel’s comprehension. But then, he also supposes it isn’t his place to judge. If the beta wants to throw himself at uninterested cherubs, that’s his own business—but he can do it later.

Castiel marches up to his lifelong friend and announces his presence with a sigh, loud in the rapidly-quieting room, everyone listening for possible gossip. “Balthazar, leave her alone.”

Balthazar jerks in surprise and then brightens, slipping off of the cherub’s desk and throwing his arms wide. “Cassie! It’s been ages! Look at you, finally back and—” He abruptly cuts off, his eyes having fallen on Dean where he hovers just behind Cas. He sucks in a breath, face losing some of its color. “And mated. Castiel, what in the bloody hell have you done?”

While their many onlookers were hardly subtle until this point, Balthazar may as well have broken the ice for the reaction his words get. The weight of the stares on the couple go from uncomfortable to overbearing in an instant, any attempts at concealed interest evaporating. Some of the angels gawk openly and without shame, while others lean in close and whisper to one another. They might have been able to pass for being hard at work, if Cas couldn’t hear the same key phrases being muttered again and again from all around him.

 _Castiel, mated? To a_ human _._

Balthazar, at least, has the courtesy to look ashamed for what he’s kicked off. He withers under Castiel’s glare, who in turn grits his teeth and forces himself to focus.

“We were hoping to speak with you. Can we perhaps do so somewhere more private?”

Balthazar hazards a glance at their audience and frowns, then gestures for Dean and Castiel to follow him to the back, empty corner of the room. It’s not perfect, but it is better, and encourages the angels left in their wake to return to their work.

Dean couldn’t have put it any better. _Nosy assholes_.

Once they’re at least somewhat alone, Balthazar whirls, giving Cas an icy stare. “Are you going to tell me what the hell it is you’re up to, or are you just not telling anyone anything these days?”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t understand what you’re referencing. I haven’t been keeping secrets.”

“Except for the fact that you’re _mated_!” Balthazar screeches in reply, his voice barely at a reasonable volume. “You _flounce off_ the _instant_ you get transferred—and no one’s seen you since! Sources under Gabriel said you never even reported in. And he’s been near-impossible to get in touch with, too!” Balthazar pauses, mouth turned down and eyes fixing momentarily on a point in space over Castiel’s shoulder. “Alright, maybe that last bit isn’t terribly unusual. But you see my point! No one knows anything, and you aren’t doing much to help that fact.”

Dean scoffs under his breath. “Yeah, not clingy at _all_.”

Balthazar’s focus shifts in an instant, narrowing in on the human with laser-like intensity. “And who’s he?” he demands, squinting at Dean but addressing Cas. “What makes _him_ so special?”

Castiel scowls at the other angel’s particular word choice, but before he can defend his mate, Dean takes matters into his own hands. He steps threateningly toward Balthazar, a hint of a growl building in his chest and his eyes flashing gold. “You got a problem, asshat? Because you know, at this point, it just sounds to me like you’re jealous. But no matter _what_ your problem is, you need to step off. You got me?”

Balthazar leans back in surprise, wings pinned to his sides. He’s silent for a long moment, then pouts at Castiel. “I can see why you like him. He’s just as much of an ass as you are. Let me guess—custom made?”

“ _Custom made_? The hell does—”

Cas cuts Dean off with a gentle touch to his shoulder and a pointed look. It has the desired effect, and Dean calms minutely. He continues glaring at Balthazar, but Castiel is perfectly fine with that.

“Balthazar, this is Dean Winchester, my true mate. Dean, this is… Balthazar.”

“What in the hell was that pause?” Balthazar demands, affronted. “ _Dad_ , you two pricks really are perfect for each other.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Listen, pal, we came here for a reason, alright? So are you going to shut up and listen to us at any point, or should we just find someone else to talk to?”

Balthazar scoffs, but he shifts back to lean against an empty desk and flips his hand at them. “Fine. I’m listening.”

Dean looks to Cas in a silent bid for approval, and the alpha nods. For being spur of the moment, Dean’s rant was convincing. The only problem now is that they _don’t_ have a reason for speaking with Balthazar, and Castiel casts around quickly for something to discuss.

“We have a knife,” he blurts, thinking of the other seraph’s regular duties and spinning his excuse from there. “Kurdish, we believe. It has the ability to kill demons. Have you heard of such a weapon?”

“I remember the Kurds’ knife collection,” Balthazar responds, nodding seriously. “A load of them started circulating back in the day, we nixed it. Raphael made sure of that.”

Dean, thankfully, picks up on the thread Cas is taking, and asks, “Do any of them still exist, other than the one we have? And could we get our hands on a few of them?”

Balthazar shakes his head. “Honestly, it’s a wonder you stumbled across one at all. Raphael ordered them all destroyed, so we did it. Thought we were thorough, too, but…” He twitches his wings in a shrug. “Mistakes are always made.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean swears quietly. He folds his arms across his chest and turns to his mate. “Dead end, I guess?”

“Hold on,” Balthazar interrupts, pushing up out of his leaning position and staring incredulously between the mated pair. “That’s all you wanted? You seriously sought me out to ask about some _knife_? I’d bet every angel in Raph’s division could tell you what I just did, so why the hell did you come _here_?”

“We needed someone we could trust,” Castiel replies. It’s not entirely a lie, after all. “It’s not a situation Michael or Raphael can know about, not yet. Even asking about the knife would likely alert them. Are you capable of keeping this to yourself?”

Balthazar’s wings ruffle with surprise, but he quickly schools himself into a more professional demeanor and nods his understanding. Keeping secrets from the archangels isn’t exactly new to Balthazar, which is why Castiel knew the angle would appeal to him. “Not a problem. My lips are sealed, Cassie.”

Castiel nods his thanks, and casts a quick glance around the workroom. He can see several angels with skin tones similar to Uriel’s, and he spots a number of silver wings, but the two features never coincide on a single angel. Cas frowns. He had truly hoped he and Dean would not have to continue their search elsewhere.

Dean seems to sense his mate’s disappointment, and his shoulders droop ever so slightly. He had hoped for an easy solution too, Castiel knows. Despite his outburst at Balthazar, Cas is fully aware that Dean is still struggling with the depressive state Sam’s abduction sent him into. Finding Uriel may not be an immediate fix, but it’s a promise of future results, and that’s still something.

“What is this about, then?” Balthazar asks, abruptly reminding Castiel of his continued presence. He’s frowning between the alpha and the omega, eyes narrowed as he tries to determine what he’s seeing. “What’s with the pouty faces? You had to know that’s the answer I would give you, right?”

“We had hoped to get an advantage,” Castiel says, mostly truthfully. He had been fairly certain that asking about the knives wouldn’t amount to much, but he’s always willing to be pleasantly surprised.  Castiel pushes his disappointment aside for the moment, though, and squares his shoulders. “We should be going,” he says, nodding once at Balthazar and reaching out to catch Dean’s hand in his own. “Thank you for help regardless, and again, please keep this between us.”

Balthazar eyes Dean and Castiel’s joined hands warily, but thankfully doesn’t comment. He reaches out to clap a hand to Cas’ shoulder, giving his friend a tight smile. “No problem, Cassie. Take your mate and get out of here, then, before Michael or Zachariah corners you. Something tells me you’d rather avoid _that_ little chat, hm?”

Castiel looks at him sharply. “We’re going,” he says, because that is definitely _not_ what he wants. Every moment he and Dean spend in the building is another that the archangel has the chance to appear. The knowing grin that Balthazar gives him in return grates at Castiel’s nerves. He turns and leaves before he decides to do anything stupid.

“Oh, and Cassie?” Balthazar calls, amusement clear in his voice. He doesn’t seem deterred by the fact that Castiel doesn’t acknowledge him in any way, and continues loudly, “Feel free to stop ignoring me, I’m only your _best friend_.”

There are a few titters among the other angels in the room. Castiel clenches his teeth and tightens his hand around Dean’s, ignoring all of it. Dean follows without complaint, tucked protectively beneath the curve of his mate’s wing.

The walk out of the workroom is nearly as torturous as the one in had been, much to Castiel’s dismay. More of his brethren have entered the space since he and Dean made their entrance, meaning they are still a spectacle, and still being gawked at.

Eventually, they make it back to the foyer and Elyon’s desk. The cherub glances up from a stack of paperwork to give them a cursory goodbye, and then they’re pushing through the doors and out of the building—

“Castiel!”

Castiel freezes in place, disbelief flooding through him. He ignores the responding confusion from Dean and turns slowly, schooling his expression into one of polite surprise and holding his wings as neutrally as he can manage. _The traitor_. “Uriel. Is there something I can do for you?”

At his side, Dean sucks in a sharp breath. Castiel prods him across the bond, wordlessly urging him to remain quiet.

“I have a matter I wish to discuss with you,” the other seraph says, stopping a few feet away from Cas. His eyes flick to Dean for a fraction of a second, and his features momentarily pull down in a frown. He looks back to Castiel and asks, “Is there somewhere we may speak in private?”

“I have business at Gabriel’s,” Castiel says, frowning slightly. Need for professionalism or not, he doesn’t like the way that sounds. “Is this something we can discuss while we walk?”

Uriel frowns, but gestures toward the half-open door as though giving Castiel permission to continue through it. “If we must.”

Castiel continues out of the building and starts off in the direction of Gabriel’s headquarters, as he said he would. He exchanges a quick look with Dean, and finds only hard determination in his mate’s eyes.

Their plan is in motion.

~

Castiel steps up to the chair they have confined Uriel to, testing the weight of the knife in his palm. It’s not his personal blade—just a standard working of silver that he managed to find, weighted with the blessing of some long-forgotten saint. It doesn’t have the ability to kill Uriel, won’t dig deep enough to damage his grace, but it’ll hurt him nonetheless.

And that’s all Castiel is going to need.

Uriel sneers at him, twisting his wrists against the iron bonds they are held in place with. The wards etched into them keep his grace restrained—they’re archaic, dating back to Lucifer’s fall, and have long-since been outlawed in Heaven. Uriel eyes them disdainfully for a moment before flicking his dark eyes up to meet Castiel’s. “You were prepared for this,” he says, a statement, not a question. “How interesting.”

“I had to be,” Castiel replies without a hint of inflection. He doesn’t want to linger on that fact, though. The less Uriel knows, the better. He resists the urge to check on Dean over his shoulder, confident that his mate is only just behind him. This part, they’re doing together. “You have something that we need.”

The imprisoned seraph draws himself up in his chair, wings straining against the ties that hold them against his back. His contempt is clear in every inch of his being, and he leans forward as much as he can, sneering at Castiel. “I have nothing of the sort. And whatever it is you _think_ you’re going to do, you won’t. You have no reason to keep me here; release me.”

“I have every reason,” Castiel counters sharply. “You have betrayed the Host, consorted with demons. You have information that I need, and you will not be leaving here until I get it.”

The other seraph’s eyes narrow, and Castiel knows that the same unspoken understanding he had had with Gabriel is present now as well. Uriel knows just as well as Castiel that he won’t be able to go free at all. Not without serious consequences on Cas’ part, which they’re both aware he will not willingly take on.

Castiel doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he takes a half-step to the side, signaling for Dean to move forward. It’s only fair that he is the one to deliver these lines, Castiel figures.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” Dean begins, voice pitched menacingly low. He steps closer to Uriel, looming over him. “You’re going to tell us what we need to know, so that we can save my brother. If you don’t? It’s going to hurt. Understand, dickhead?”

Uriel laughs darkly, his lip curling in a snarl. “There isn’t a brother left for you to _save_ , boy.”

Dean growls and lunges toward him, only stopped by Cas’ arms quickly going around him. His eyes flash gold. “Shut _up_ , you son of a bitch!”

“Dean, stop!” Castiel holds Dean tighter, refusing to be moved by his mate’s struggling. He says quietly, hoping to get through to the man, “This is not the way to get our answers,”

Uriel makes amused sound. “You will have to learn to do a better job of keeping your pet in check, Castiel. He does not know his place.”

Now it’s Castiel’s turn to growl, and he abandons his task of holding Dean back to instead press the tip of his chosen knife against the flesh of Uriel’s neck. “You will not speak of him in such a way,” he spits. “It will only make your situation worse, and I can assure you, that is not something you want to do.”

“I have nothing to lose,” Uriel replies. Despite the bravado of his words, he shrinks away from Castiel’s knife, scowling all the while. He adds, chin raised, “Do your worst.”

Castiel smirks, too fueled by rage to even feign a dignified response. Without further ado, he buries his knife in Uriel’s thigh and walks away, pulling Dean along after him.

~

For several long, excruciating hours, Uriel is like stone. He replies in nothing but taunts to whatever methods Castiel uses to get him to talk, and never gets them any closer to what they need. Castiel begins to lose hope that this plan is viable at all, and he knows Dean feels the same way, where he waits on the sidelines.

And then comes Uriel’s final plea.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Castiel pauses in setting down his blade, slowly turning back to face the other seraph. Uriel’s suit is soaked through with blood, shredded in places to reveal nothing but torn flesh. His chest heaves, but his wings hold surprisingly steady in their ties, silver feathers shining even now.

“This isn’t necessary,” Uriel says, leveling Castiel with an even stare that oozes with alpha posturing. “You could join us. You’d be an asset, Castiel. I was already going to recruit you. We’d be stronger with you on our side, we would be _unstoppable_.”

Castiel tilts his head and takes a careful step forward. “And who’s side is that?” he asks. “What is that you so hope to accomplish?”

Uriel rolls his head in a circle, making the joints pop. “We can _rule_ , Castiel,” he continues fervently, “we won’t have to live in the shadows of their wings anymore, don’t you see? We can reorder the Hierarchy, make things our own. With Azazel’s army—”

“So that’s why you’re doing it?” Castiel interrupts, his knuckles going white around the hilt of his blade. “It’s a power trip. You allow the forces of Hell to incinerate Earth, to raze Heaven, and then—What? Rebuild from the ashes, place yourself on top? Our Father built Heaven in the way He wanted. Destroying it would be futile.”

“If that’s what you think, then you’re a fool,” Uriel growls, his expression going thunderous in an instant. “ _Our Father_ is nothing more than a joke! He’s _gone_ , Castiel, He _left us_! We have the power to make our own destinies!” He starts to cough suddenly. He spits a glob of blood onto the cement floor, narrowly missing Castiel’s shoe. “Join us, and you will be forgiven for this. If not, you and your little human will be extinguished. Something tells me that’s not the fate you want for him.”

It’s not. Whatever else happens, Dean doesn’t deserve the consequences, and that gives Castiel pause. He doesn’t agree with Uriel’s quest for dominance—how could he?—but the logical side of him knows that being involved in a war has its consequences, no matter what side he’s fighting for. With that in mind, Cas’ best bet to keep his mate safe may truly lie in staying away from the battlefield all together.

He doesn’t want to do that.

He wants Dean safe.

“Join us, Castiel,” Uriel says. His mocking tone has drained away, leaving him sounding alarmingly sincere. “If your mate is what you want, then keep him by your side. It’s not as though remaining loyal to _Michael_ will be doing your omega any favors as it is. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what he’ll say when he meets him.”

There’s a scuffing of shoes against the floor as Dean enters, and even that cuts through the spiral Castiel’s thoughts. His voice is hard when he calls out, “Cas, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Castiel tenses. He nods once and follows Dean out of the main room to a side room, beyond Uriel’s range of hearing. He’s not paying much attention as they walk and nearly crashes into Dean as a result when the man abruptly stops and whirls to face him.

“What the hell are you thinking?” he demands on a whisper, eyes bright with a fearful kind of intensity. He’s more animated than he’s been in days. “Don’t listen to that rat bastard, Cas! He’s trying to get in your head, and you’re letting him! You don’t want what he’s selling, remember? All we need is info on Azazel.”

“I _remember_ , Dean,” Castiel snaps. “And what I also _remember_ is that there are traitors in our ranks. Heaven is on the brink of _war_ , don’t you see that? If I can do something to keep you safe—”

An inhuman growl rips out of Dean’s chest, and he shoves at Cas’ shoulder, hard enough to send an ordinary man falling to the floor. When Castiel remains impassive, his irritation only flares hotter. “Damnit, Cas! I am not something to be _kept_! And even if there is a war, are you really telling me you’re going to side with that asshat and whoever he’s working with? You’re going to side against Gabriel?”

The fight leaves Castiel in an instant, and his wings droop. No. He won’t side against Gabriel. He couldn’t. He hadn’t really considered it, either, but Father, he had been close.

Dean steps into his space, hesitating only for a moment before kissing the angel’s forehead. “Come on, Cas. You got this. We know for a fact that this son of a bitch is guilty, and we already know Azazel’s opening a doorway to Hell. We’re close. And then when we’re done, we can go save Sam. Alright?”

“Alright,” Castiel agrees glumly. He’s not pleased about it, but he knows Dean’s right. They’ve made it this far. They’re close. And in the end, he can stab Uriel in the heart and feel no remorse for the traitor’s loss.

Dean claps him on the shoulder, a tendril of anxiety leaking into the bond even as he gives Castiel his most reassuring smile. “Go on, then. Get the job done.”

Castiel nods and returns to the main room without another word. He tries to keep his despair of becoming evident to Dean, but it’s difficult. He’s never been a fan of torture as a method of interrogation in the first place, and having to rely on it now is draining. That, coupled with his quarry’s manipulative nature, has him truly doubting their chance of success in this endeavor.

Uriel’s chair is empty when he returns.

Castiel goes to high alert in an instant, summoning his blade to him and spinning around, scanning every corner of the room for his lost captive. He doesn’t understand how the wards keeping Uriel in place could have broken, but that they have is indisputable.

If Uriel is actually gone, Castiel is as good as fallen. Michael will have his wings mounted above his desk without a moment’s hesitation, centuries of dedicated service be damned.

There’s a slight scrape and a grunt of pain from the rafters above, and Castiel turns to investigate just in time for Uriel’s feet to collide with his sternum. The blow sends the smaller seraph halfway across the room, scraping uncomfortably across the concrete. Cas scrambles to get back to his feet, but Uriel is on him before he gets the chance. A brutal kick to his wrist shatters the bones and sends his blade skittering far out of reach.

The pain in Castiel’s hand is great—he isn’t used to feeling such injuries, and he doesn’t have the time to focus his grace enough to heal himself—but it’s quickly eclipsed by two sharp points of pressure on his wings. Uriel kneels over him, his knees crushing Castiel’s tertiary feathers and the tendons beneath into the hard floor, and wraps strong, blood-covered hands around Castiel’s throat.

“You are a fool,” he spits as he crushes Cas’ windpipe like it’s nothing. “You aren’t going to win this, Castiel. You should have saved yourself and your _pet_ while you had the chance.”

Castiel claws at Uriel’s forearms, but his movements are too frantic to allow him a decent grip. Black spots dance on the edge of his vision, and his consciousness wanes. Angels can’t be killed by asphyxiation, but that fact doesn’t seem to be deterring Uriel any. The moment Castiel is unconscious, he’ll likely manifest his blade and end the defeated seraph once and for all.

Uriel continues, “Sam Winchester will open the Devil’s Gate when his ties to the realm are strongest, and his army will be _freed_. Michael will be crushed beneath his boot, and we will rise from the ashes, a new reign, free from the shadow of our Father!”

It takes all of the effort Castiel can muster to scowl at the seraph over him, and he manages to grit out with air he doesn’t truly have, “ _Fuck you_.”

Uriel’s expression goes impossibly darker, and his eyes flash red with rage, hands pressing down more forcefully. “Why you little—”

The silver tip of an angel’s blade erupts from the base of Uriel’s throat before he can finish his threat. Blood sprays across Cas’ face, but he at least has the opportunity to take a gasping breath before the other seraph’s weight slumps down onto him, effectively crushing the air out of him once again.

And then Uriel’s grace cracks, erupting from his corpse like a supernova. The pure, unbridled energy races along his wings, turning them to ash in its wake. It scorches along Castiel’s own wings and forearms, makes his grace scream in protest, and it’s all he can do to close his eyes against the bright light of the angel’s death.

It seems to last an eternity, but it’s over within seconds. Uriel’s life force disperses into the ether, and the stench of burnt feathers and ozone permeates the room.

Castiel can see Dean over Uriel’s shoulder, bloodied blade gripped tight in his hand and chest heaving. He meets Castiel’s eyes and swallows hard. “Dumb fuck got caught up monologuing. Obviously he never watched enough Disney movies as a kid to teach him better.”

Castiel huffs, and dislodges the body above him so that he can get to his feet. He doesn’t bother to tell Dean that he doesn’t understand the reference—Dean knows, and Castiel isn’t going to put a damper on the levity he has managed to bring to the situation.

The charcoaled remains of Uriel’s wings stretch wide in either direction of his corpse, burned forever into the cement. There’s a perfect outline of the space Castiel had occupied when the blast went off, right at the center of it.

He shakes his wings out and tucks them into subspace, brushing the black smudges from his arms. The residue that coats him makes him feel foul. Unclean. He would have preferred to actually kill Uriel himself, rather than have to deal with _this_.

He tries not to think about that.

“Cas?”

Castiel turns toward his mate, not having realized how intently he’d been staring at the dead seraph until Dean broke his attention. He blinks a few times and tries to get his thoughts in order. “Yes?”

“Does that…” Dean takes a shaky breath, and gestures vaguely toward the scene in front of them. “Does that happen every time? The… the thing with the wings?”

“Every time,” Castiel echoes. He doubts he has to tell Dean that it’s just as difficult to witness every time, as well. It seems to be a given. He glances around the room, inspecting the mess that will now need to be cleaned up. There is no evidence that he and Dean in particular were the ones here, which means it can be dealt with after the ordeal with Azazel.

From the sounds of it, they don’t have much time before that comes to pass.

“We should go,” Cas says, looking up at his mate. He moves toward Dean, touching a hand to his elbow. “The others will need to be made aware, and preparations must be made.”

Dean sighs. His eyes are still on the dead seraph. “Yeah. Let’s go, then.”

Castiel threads his fingers through Dean’s and takes flight.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uriel’s words echo in his mind. The boy with the demon blood, at the heart of it all.
> 
>  
> 
> _There isn’t a brother left for you to save._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Couple of points I'd like to address real quick, and you're going to want to read these. Big things.
> 
> 1) Early chapter! Should I be posting this now? Probably not! But it's been written for longer than the last chapter and I'm anxious as hell to get it out to all you lovely people. I've been excited for this since I first decided to make this story into more than a PWP. Good shit.  
> 2) Also, we're getting close to the end of this tale. According to my current count, there will just be **three** more chapters, including an epilogue.  
>  3) And a sequel! I let myself be talked into this one before this fic was even halfway done, and from the general outline I have of it, it's going to be great. I've finally tagged this fic as part of a series so you can subscribe over there to be alerted to the sequel and other drabbles (which are probably totally on their way, hint hint nudge nudge). 
> 
> So. That's what I got for now. Try not to hate me for this chapter, and hold onto your butts.
> 
> Enjoy.

Thirty-two hours.

According to Cas’ calculations, that’s all they have until the end of the world.

It makes Dean’s stomach turn. He presses the heels of his palms just a little bit harder against his eye sockets, like it’ll allow him to block the world out that much more.

Of _course_ Azazel’s making his move on November 2 nd, right at nightfall. Of fucking course. Victory on its own evidently isn’t enough for the bastard—no, he has to _gloat_ , too. Turn the date into an even blacker smudge that will forever haunt Dean’s mind. Who would have guessed that the night his mother was killed was also the night Hell staked its claim on his brother?

He knows he should be downstairs. He should be with Bobby, and Jess. He should be helping them make whatever preparations are necessary for their big boss battle tomorrow night, the biggest one any of them could have ever imagined, but he’s already packed rock salt into shotgun shells until his fingers bled. Dean doesn’t imagine he could be of much use trying to do anything else at the moment.

Uriel’s words echo in his mind. The boy with the demon blood, at the heart of it all.

_There isn’t a brother left for you to save._

If that bag of dicks had been telling the truth… Fuck. Losing John is bad enough as it is, but Sam too? Dean doesn’t even know what he’ll do.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been hidden away in his bedroom like some sort of damsel by the time the now-familiar rustle of feathers disturbs the air. Dean doesn’t look up from his curled-up position against the wall, but Cas still settles on the mattress beside him, the dip from his weight forcing Dean to either shift or risk falling sideways.

“Dean.”

The sound of his name rolling off Cas’ tongue sends a shiver down Dean’s spine as it so frequently does, but he shakes his head. He isn’t ready to uncurl yet, to face reality.

Here, with his eyes covered and body steadily going numb from lack of movement, he can almost pretend none of this is happening. He can almost pretend that he didn’t just watch his boyfriend-husband-mate brutally torture an angel because Dean put him in a situation where it was necessary. He can almost pretend that he didn’t kill said angel himself, and wind up with the image of burning wings forever imprinted in his mind. He can almost pretend that he isn’t soon going to have to be in a fight to the death with his little brother, with the fate of the world hinging on the outcome.

Almost, almost, almost.

Fingers thread lightly through Dean’s hair, stroking over Dean’s scalp in a way he’s helpless but to sigh into. Cas’ voice picks back up, the deep rumble of it closer than it had been a moment ago, and this time it takes a surprising amount of effort to focus on.

“Dean, will you at least lay down? I can leave if that’s what you’d prefer, but this is no way for you to sleep. You might be sore tomorrow, and we…” He sighs. In his mind’s eye, Dean can see the face the angel must be making in perfect clarity. Cross. Defeated. Searching for the words least likely to offend. He finishes, “We would be best not to have any disadvantages, however insignificant they may seem. This is too big.”

Dean is nowhere near sleep, like Cas seems to think he is, but that doesn’t change the fact that it probably _isn’t_ the best idea to stay like this for the next thirty hours. It’s petty, and stupid, and will probably get him killed. Thankfully, it doesn’t take much effort for him to stretch out his limbs and roll to bury his face in his pillow instead of his own hands.

It’s only marginally less childish, but he’ll take it.

Cas’ hand remains in his hair for a moment, then smooths down the back of his neck and across his shoulders, pausing only briefly midway to press at the scarred imprint of his teeth left behind what feels like so long ago now. A pair of lips touch the crown of Dean’s head, as close to his face as they can get with the pillow in the way, and then the weight on the mattress shifts away in preparation to leave.

Faster than he can even fully process what he’s doing, Dean pushes himself upward and shoots out a hand to lock around his angel’s wrist, panic fueling him. Cas exudes patience when he meets Dean’s eyes, ready to wait for whatever it is he has to say.

For a long moment, all Dean can do is stare. Cas’ eyes are so fucking _blue_ that it makes Dean’s chest feel tight. Sometimes they express so much, and other times so little, like now. But that’s not right. Cas’ eyes shouldn’t look this empty, his pain tucked away deep inside and leaking out only through his scent. Cas smells better than anything Dean’s ever encountered, but at the moment, that rich-honey and something-clean-after-a-rainstorm scent is bitter in Dean’s nostrils, and he has to fix it. _Needs_ to fix it.

Dean tugs on Cas’ wrist to pull him further down onto the bed at the same time that he surges up to meet his lips. From the first touch, it’s heated and heavy and eats at something in Dean’s very core. He lets it continue until Cas is practically straddling him on the bed, his wings trembling with need but holding themselves at bay for the time being. It’s then that Dean breaks their mouths apart, touches his forehead to his soulmate’s, and whispers, “Stay.”

Cas makes a sound that’s too uncomfortably close to a sob for Dean’s taste and crushes their mouths back together. Their tongues meet in a tangle behind Dean’s teeth, but despite the chosen battleground, neither of them seems to have complete dominance over the kiss. It sets Dean’s blood boiling.

Cas is practically draped over Dean from head to toe, an arrangement which allows their cocks to drag alongside one another perfectly, regardless of the layers of clothing still between them. Dean is fine to go along with it, to let Cas take him however he wants as usual, until suddenly he isn’t.

In a quick move he vaguely remembers using against Cas once before, Dean locks his thighs on either side of the angel’s hips and uses the leverage it provides him to flip them both. Cas’ wings deftly pivot and rearrange to avoid being crushed against the mattress, but from the wide-eyed wonderment on Cas’ face, Dean knows he well and truly caught him by surprise, reflexive movements be damned. Dean can’t help but smirk in satisfaction for a brief instant before leaning down and getting back to work.

He teases his lips across Cas’ then trails his mouth over to nip at the column of the angel’s neck. The tender skin quickly pinkens under Dean’s ministrations, and it’s all too easy to leave dark marks over his pulse point, the hollow of his throat, the edge of the mating bite Dean himself inflicted.

Cas twitches desperately beneath him. Dean limits a good deal of his mobility by digging his fingers into the soft black feathers at the base of his wings and making Cas _keen_ , but even still, Dean isn’t truly cruel. He drags his teeth across the lobe of Cas’ ear and has only to grunt the word “ _Clothes_ ,” for his desire to be understood and fulfilled.

And _Jesus_ , Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling of instant, grace-assisted nudity, but boy does he love it. He’s already impossibly hard, and the effortless transition to skin-on-skin contact draws a gasp of relief.

He also doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to the fact that he gets wet on his own now, but just like the instant nudity, it’s extremely convenient. Dean can feel the slick substance seeping from his hole, running down the back of his thighs in excess, and he knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that he could take Cas’ cock as he is and not experience a shred of discomfort. Simple human experience tells him that this is definitely _not_ a good idea, but with the riot that’s still going on in Dean’s head over all that is to come, he decides he just doesn’t give a damn.

Dean lowers himself onto Cas’ length slowly at first, unable to _completely_ disregard his trepidation at the lack of prep, but by the time he’s halfway seated, he abruptly decides that he doesn’t care and slams the rest of the way home. He and Cas groan in stereo when their hips are flush, and after only a brief moment of adjustment on Dean’s side, it’s all systems go.

Dean fucks himself back on Cas with abandon. One hand clutches sporadically at fistfuls of onyx feathers while the other claws at the angel’s chest, leaving red, angry lines in its wake. The lines hold Dean’s attention almost as thoroughly as the spots on Cas’ neck do, and despite everything else that’s happening, he finds himself oddly transfixed by them.

They’re like evidence, he thinks. Irrefutable proof that for now, the two of them are here. That this is something for them, and that it’s real.

It goes unspoken that one or both of them could die tomorrow. The link between their minds is heavy with the knowledge. Cas could go like Uriel had, with a bright burst of grace, wings charcoaling and the awful smell of burnt feathers permeating the air—

There are only five of them, after all. It may be inevitable. Five, against the worst Hell has to offer.

Five against Azazel.

Five against Sam.

Dean forces the thoughts away with a snarl, flexing his thighs until Cas’ cock is nearly sliding free and then dropping back down with all of his weight. Cas’ hands grip Dean’s hips to help guide him, but overall, the touch isn’t restrictive. He doesn’t try to take control or lessen the harsh pace Dean has set, and Dean is grateful.

After the events of the last few days, they both need the release too badly.

It isn’t long before the heat building in Dean’s gut becomes too much, and he comes with a punched-out sob. He doesn’t know when he started crying, but now he’s apparently helpless to stop. Embarrassment floods through him, because Jesus, who the hell cries during sex? But then Cas is there, sitting upright to encircle him in arms and wings, to wipe away tears with the pads of his thumbs. His knot swells and locks them together, enforcing intimacy and denying Dean the opportunity of taking his shame and hiding it away.

Dean can’t seem to stop the shaking of his limbs, no matter how strongly he clings to his angel—that is, until Cas starts to speak. It’s quiet at first, the gentle, rhythmic cadence of his voice, but it picks up volume as he goes. The words are indecipherable, and only vaguely familiar to boot, but the repeated lilt is soothing nonetheless.

It doesn’t click together in Dean’s mind for a few minutes, not until he is on the verge of being lulled to sleep.

Cas is speaking to him in Enochian. He doesn’t understand it, of course, and from the way the words twist and repeat he halfway suspects it to be a lullaby or something—but it doesn’t make a difference. His chest still feels tight with affection, and once again he’s blown away by how lucky he is to have Cas at all.

He thinks he might start crying just a little bit more, then, but it’s hard to tell. He’s asleep within moments.

~

They set out for the Devil’s Gate earlier than is strictly necessary, departing shortly after noon. Considering they have nothing else to do with themselves besides wait, it’s unanimously decided that waiting at their destination is their best bet. Sunset will be on the early side, and the last thing they want to do is miss it. Gabe arrives back from wherever the hell he’s been just in time to fly Jess and Bobby out, while, unsurprisingly, Dean hitches a ride with Cas.

Wyoming is cold, Dean quickly discovers. Wind whips across the flat land of Calvary Cemetery and bites into his skin, stinging his face and rendering his fingers numb within seconds. It’s miserable, but in light of the battle the five of them are about to fight, no one says a word. Dean settles himself in to wait against a crumbling tombstone with his sawed-off across his lap, well within sight of the decrepit doorway they already know to be the Gate. Bobby and Jess position themselves next to him, and Cas and Gabe stand guard nearby.

After a while, Cas says quietly and to no one in particular, “We’re in a devil’s trap.”

Bobby frowns. “The hell are you talkin’ about? We’re sitting on grass, there’s no place for one to have been painted.”

“No, he’s right,” Gabe says, his eyes focused on some point far over the horizon. “Must be a safety measure for the Gate. There’re steel tracks, going for miles around this place… Samuel Colt really knew what he was doing.”

“Colt?” Bobby raises an eyebrow. “How do you know he had anything to do with this?”

Gabe shrugs. “I did my research. Apparently he’s the one to thank for the locks currently keeping the Gate shut.”

Dean asks, “You guys can sense the sigil?” When both of the angels nod, he concludes, “So we’ll know they’re here when it breaks.”

Jess scoffs, though not in disagreement. “I bet breaking it’s going to be Sam’s job. That’s exactly the kind of cliché assholes we’re dealing with.”

Dean can’t even bring himself to smile at her. He can see he’s not the only one, and he’s glad for it.

~

It happens with no warning, a scant hour before sunset. One moment, Cas is sitting at Dean’s side, pressed alongside him and sharing his warmth, and the next the angel is on his feet with his blade pulled and wings spread. Gabe had moved in the same instant, his stance now a mirror of Cas’, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it means.

There’s a heavy silence after the trap breaks. Dean’s finger flexes against the trigger of his gun as he goes to stand next to Cas, all of them tense as they wait for the demons’ inevitable arrival.

When nothing continues to happen, Jess whispers, “False alarm?”

The moment the question is voiced, a seething mass of black smoke hurtles over the horizon, obscuring an increasingly large portion of the sky the closer it gets to the Gate. Wind whips through the graveyard, sharp and hot and carrying on it the thick stench of sulfur. The smoke quickly overtakes their position, swirling above and around them until the sun is blocked entirely, a dome formed around the perimeter of the cemetery.

Two columns of smoke separate from the rest of the mass, touching down only a few yards in front of Cas and Gabe, who are their party’s front line. The plumes rearrange and solidify into humanoid forms, and then the smoke dissipates all together, leaving in it’s place—

Dean staggers a forward, only to be stopped by Cas’ sudden, unbreakable grip on his shoulder. “ _Sammy_.”

Sam doesn’t so much as look at him. His eyes are blank—No. His eyes are _black_ , and Dean can’t breathe, he can’t fucking _breathe, this isn’t happening_ —

“Dean, _stop_ ,” Cas hisses. “Please. Don’t lose your head, not now.”

Dean struggles uselessly against Cas’ hold for a moment longer, but ultimately, he knows the angel is right. He needs to focus, he needs to—

“Listen to your alpha, Dean,” John’s voice says from Sam’s side, and Dean realizes he hadn’t even noticed him there. Azazel smirks. “Come on, be a good little omega, just like you always have. Submit. And maybe—if you’re lucky—I’ll convince Sammy-boy to keep you around as a _pet_.”

“What the fuck have you done to him, you son of a bitch?” Dean snarls, ignoring the taunts all together. Rage courses through his veins, and his eyes itch—he briefly wonders if this is what Cas feels like when he’s pissed off. He has no doubt in his mind that he would rip Azazel’s throat out with his _teeth_ right now, if that’s what it took.

There’s a flash of concerned surprise across the link between himself and Cas and, okay, _yeah_ , probably shouldn’t be entertaining graphic, murderous thoughts while someone else has access to his head. He can feel Cas’ eyes on the side of his face, and he resolutely avoids the angel’s gaze.

Azazel smirks, John’s stolen eyes glowing with the demon’s sick brand of amusement. “Nothing he didn’t want done.” He slings an arm around Sam’s shoulders and, while Sam doesn’t even seem to notice, the sight of he and John-but-not-John being buddy-buddy makes bile rise in Dean’s throat. “You see, Dean-o,” Azazel drawls on, “your baby brother is an _excellent_ student. And he’s _so_ responsive—teaching him was a breeze.”

“He’s not possessed,” Gabe explains quietly. Dean looks at him incredulously, not understanding, but the archangel’s eyes remain fixed on Azazel. “His soul has been torn to shreds. Your brother’s a demon.”

“Bingo!” Azazel cries, grinning and pointing a finger gun at Gabriel. “You see, our boy king here needed to be _authentic_ , not just some parasite in a pretty flesh suit. Because you know what, fellas?” He laughs, his eyes flicking to yellow. “A good leader is all it takes to _win_.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for a moment, Dean wonders if this is it. If this is the moment when the demons actually strike, crush their petty resistance in a single blow and open the Gate to truly release Hell on earth.

Then, suddenly, the dome of demon smoke above them begins to crackle with blue, white, and gold lightning. The dome dips and contorts as a result, a sound like nails on a chalkboard filling the air. Dean instinctively covers his ears, but the more damage is done to the demons, the worse the sound gets.

Gabe laughs, the sound of it miraculously cutting through the screams. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he cries, “the Cavalry has arrived!”

Dean stares, uncomprehending. It isn’t until the bolts of energy begin hitting the ground and changing their forms that he realizes what he’s seeing.

Angels. A lot of them.

Gabriel is still visibly grinning, and even Cas is radiating surprise, mingled with a cautious sort of hope. Dean can’t help but feel the same way.

If it’s not just the five of them, maybe their cause isn’t so hopeless after all.

For every angel that has manifested, a dozen demons take form to match. The battle takes no time at all to begin in full swing—Azazel may have been ready to sit and stare and have a goddamn pissing contest before he gave his own command to begin, but the angels are having none of that. They’re all on the fringes of the cemetery, far enough away that Dean can’t make out specific details, but he can see at least that they’re not here to play games.

Azazel sighs irritably, the sound so much like one John would make that it makes Dean grind his teeth. The demon turns to Sam and says, “Get the key and get it done,” then walks off toward the thickest part of the battle.

“Cas, we need to go,” Gabe says a moment later, watching in the direction Azazel vanished into. His wings seem to vibrate with barely-contained energy, and he looks at his brother pointedly, sparing the three humans only a brief, calculating glance. “Getting the ringleader out of the equation is our best shot. These guys can hold back Demon Boy Wonder, while we cut the head off the snake.”

Cas frowns, but nods along. Satisfied, Gabe flicks his wings and goes off to join the battle.

Cas casts a quick look at Sam—who hasn’t moved, as goddamn creepy as that is—before turning and pulling Dean into a quick kiss, his eyes burning with emotions Dean can’t even begin to identify. “Be safe, and call me if you need me. Please.”

Dean nods, and has to swallow around the sudden lump that has lodged itself in his throat. “’Course. You be safe too, alright? If you die, I swear to god, I will kill you.”

That earns Dean a smile, and god, it’s probably one of the sappiest expressions the angel’s ever worn. It makes Dean’s heart ache, even as he squeezes his hand to Cas’ arm and says, “Go. We got this.”

Cas still looks hesitant, but he clenches his jaw and goes in the same way his brother did.

Three against Sam.

Not bad. Not great.

Dean exchanges quick looks with Bobby and Jess. It’s like football. If they can just keep Sam from getting to the end zone before Gabe or Cas succeeds in icing Azazel, they should be fine. The other two seem to understand this, and brace themselves.

The black orbs in Sam’s face flick between Devil’s Gate and the trio standing in his way. With no more warning than that, he starts to run.

Game on.

Jess sprints directly at him in clear hopes of interception, but she’s knocked to the side with nothing more than a casual twist of Sam’s wrist. She cries out in surprise, though she falls abruptly silent when her body connects with a moss-covered tombstone with a sickening _crack_.

Two against Sam.

Dean and Bobby shout in unison, and they charge toward Sam together. He doesn’t use his freaky mind powers on them, but that’s hardly something to be grateful for, because he still overpowers them with ease. Bobby gets lifted and tossed out of the way like he weighs nothing at all. He lands several feet away with a curse, his leg snapped and bone visible.

One against Sam.

Dean thinks he’s going to be sick.

Sam… doesn’t charge for the Devil’s Gate, like Dean expects him to. There would be nothing stopping him—it’s obvious he could get rid of Dean just as easily as he got rid of Jess and Bobby, at which point he’d have unrestricted access to the Gate.

Sam silently inspects the doorway, face pinched in thought, then he turns and pins his cold stare on Dean. Specifically, he stares at the Colt, tucked in a holster at Dean’s hip.

Suddenly, Dean remembers what Gabe had said earlier, about Samuel Colt being behind the locks on the Devil’s Gate. Combine that with Azazel’s comment about a key, forgotten until right now, and Dean has a horrible feeling he knows what Sam’s new priority is.

Sure enough, Sam starts toward him, so Dean does the most logical thing he can.

He turns and runs. If he has the key, he can’t let it be anywhere near that door.

He doesn’t get very far before Sam is on him, though, yanking him to a stop and punching him across the face. The blow sends Dean reeling, but when Sam steps in for a follow up, Dean lunges and they both topple to the ground. Somehow during this, the Colt becomes dislodged from its holster. Sam leaps at the opportunity and fumbles to pick it up, and Dean’s knee-jerk reaction is to smack it out of his hand. It arcs through the air and lands in the dirt a few meters away. It’s just out of reach, but if Dean could just _crawl over there_ —

One look at Sam’s face tell him that his brother has the same idea, and suddenly the two of them are grappling for dominance, each hoping to come out on top and make it to the gun first. Sam has a distinct advantage, because of both the demonic energy racing through his veins and because of the sheer _size_ of him, but Dean is determined. He scrambles up ahead of Sam, the gun almost within his grasp—

Another hand beats him there. Dean looks up, outraged, only to find his father’s face smirking down at him. He rushes to get to his feet, heedless of Sam still rolling in the dirt behind him. Dean won’t give Azazel the satisfaction of having any sort of upper hand, and that includes the matter of height.

Azazel examines the gun in his hand for a moment, twisting it this way and that in what’s obviously more of a show than a true inspection. “You stole this from me,” he comments idly, eyes quickly flicking toward Dean. “When you killed my son. You remember that, of course.”

Dean swallows hard. He wishes he knew where Cas was. “Your son was a useless dick. Guess that was a paternal feature.”

Azazel’s expression hardens. He stares impassively at Dean for a long moment, the sounds of battle all around the only distraction, until he barks, “Sammy. I have a job for you.”

Sam silently circles to the demon’s side, though his black eyes don’t once leave Dean. He doesn’t verbally respond to Azazel, but the way he angles his body makes it clear that he’s listening, ready for his task.

There’s so little humanity behind the movements that Dean wants to cry. He thinks he would, if he weren’t completely at the demons’ mercy.

“Do me a favor, Sam?” Azazel hands him the Colt, grinning at Dean all the while. “Shoot your brother.”

Dean’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t get the chance to take more than half a step away before the all-too-familiar feeling of a demon’s power sweeps over him, and suddenly he can’t move at all. He’s helpless to do anything but watch as Sam takes the gun, not an ounce of hesitation in his bones, and level the barrel with his head in the same second.

Dean struggles against Azazel’s hold on him, because for fuck’s sake, this is _not how he’s going out_. He gets nowhere, the restrictions on him too strong, so he turns to Sam with pleading eyes. “Sammy, please—don’t do this. This isn’t you, Sam!”

Azazel chuckles, steps in closer to his protégé. “That’s where you’re wrong, Dean-o,” he taunts, “this is _all_ Sam.”

Dean ignores him, and instead keeps his focus on his brother’s emotionless face. “Damnit, Sammy, don’t do this!”

The corners of Sam’s mouth pull down, but other than that, there’s no response.

Dean tries harder.

“Sam, don’t listen to this asshole! He killed _mom_ , now you’re going to just let him win?”

Sam’s eyelid twitches. The gun in his hand begins to tremble, ever so slightly, and then his head tips—not at a drastic angle like Cas’ would, but enough, leaving the upright-and-locked positon he’s held so far.

The gun starts to lower.

Sam blinks once, twice. There’s a flash of hazel. “Dean?”

Dean practically gasps in relief. It’s short-lived.

“Fine,” Azazel growls, yanking the Colt from Sam’s hand, “you want something done, do it yourself.” He raises the gun in one, smooth motion and shoots.

It’s like the goddamn shot heard ‘round the world for the effect it has on the surrounding battle. Dean feels like he’s seeing it all in slow motion. The trigger is pulled and Sam screams, but anything he can do is too little and too late, Azazel’s powers now holding him in place as well.

Then the bullet tears into Dean’s chest, and that _slow motion_ bullshit comes to a quick end. He staggers back a step with the force of it, and then suddenly his knees are connecting with the dirt, definitely without Dean’s explicit permission to do so. It takes a moment for the pain to register in his mind, first having to get past the barrier of _holy fuck I just got shot_ , but once it hits, it hits full force.

It fucking _hurts_.

“You shot my son,” Dean hears from somewhere ahead of him, the words low against the other chaos of the cemetery, the shouts of his name. Maybe he should be focusing on those other things, anything else, but he doesn’t think he could if he tried. Dean glances up, clutching weakly at the bloody hole in his chest, and John yells again, outraged, “ _You shot my son_!”

Dean sees the situation unfold in his mind’s eye a fraction of a second before it actually does.

John’s face twists with a scowl, eyes flicking between brown and yellow as the man fights for dominance with the demon within him. He lifts the Colt with jerky movements to press the barrel against his temple, and for a brief second, he meets Dean’s eyes. His mouth opens, like he’s about to say something, but Azazel abruptly seizes control again, cutting him off.

“Don’t you even—”

John pulls the trigger. His body hits the ground with a dull _thud_. There is no fuss, no fanfare—only sparks of orange energy lighting up his skeleton as the demon held within is killed.

 _Figures_ , Dean thinks, somewhat deliriously. The most lackluster ending imaginable, and John still manages to make himself the hero of it all.

Fucking _whatever_.

And apparently, even being on his knees isn’t enough to satisfy the damage done to Dean’s body, because he starts to slump forward, his head spinning and breathing ragged, until—ah, yes. Arms. He wasn’t holding out hope, but he’s glad someone caught him. Falling on his face would have been embarrassing.

The limbs wrap around him carefully and gently lower him to his back, even going so far as to support his head like a goddamn infant. The position definitely isn’t better, but it lessens the rush of blood in his ears at the very least, so maybe it wasn’t entirely a wasted effort.

But it _hurts_. God, why does it hurt so bad? It’s not like Dean hasn’t been shot before, this shouldn’t be a whole lot different.

Or maybe it is different. Maybe this is just what dying feels like.

His vision is swimming, but he can just make out black, and blue, and _oh god that_ blue—

Dean blinks a few times, forcing Cas’ face into focus. He tries to smile at his angel, but he’s pretty sure it would look horrifying from another perspective. He can taste blood. He wouldn’t be surprised if it’s dripping out of his mouth, like it would in some shitty, D-list action movie.

“Dean, stay awake! Keep your eyes on me, can you do that?”

Dean shakes his head. It’s too late for that. The pain in his body is already starting to dull, and darkness eats at the edges of his vision. Maybe that’s why there’s a shift, and suddenly it’s important, it’s _so important_.

Does Cas even know? Really know?

Here Dean is, going out like the Red Shirt he’s always been, and he can’t even remember if he ever really hammered the point home, ever said _those_ words, and to his soulmate of all people.

“Guess I…” Dean coughs—or rather, tries to. His chest is a bit damaged, so it’s not easy to pull off, despite the rest of his body’s best wishes. The sound that rattles out of him is near enough to a cough to satisfy Dean, at least. “Probably shoulda put a… put a ring on it when I had the chance, huh Cas?” He wheezes a laugh. “Sam… Sam said that. Dunno why I ‘member it. Stupid.”

Because Cas had introduced himself as Dean’s husband, and Dean was embarrassed, sure, but it still stuck with him for whatever reason, hanging somewhere in the back of his mind through everything that has happened since then, because growing up, that’s not something he ever thought he could have. It shouldn’t be important, but apparently his dying brain thinks it is, and Dean would probably be mortified, if he were still at a stage where he had anything to lose or his thought processes were capable of actually producing anything viable.

Cas’ lips are moving rapidly, but whatever his response may be is lost in the roaring of Dean’s ears. It’s probably better off this way, Dean thinks. He doesn’t need to go out crying on top of everything else. It’d just be salt in the wound.

He feels Cas’ hands on him, so he does his best to return the favor, clutching weakly at what he can reach. It takes too much effort, far more than he should, but Dean tries his best anyway. He’s running out of time. He can feel it.

“Cas.” It’s a whisper, barely more than a gasp, but his angel will be able to hear it, and that’s what matters. “I’m s-sorry. Love you.”

Cas might be crying.

Someone’s shouting.

There’s a ringing in his ears. He feels numb.

Bright, white-hot light surrounds him.

Dean opens himself to it willingly.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angels will all know what’s happening, and in all likelihood, the demons do as well. It’s hardly complicated, and a spectacle besides.
> 
> It’s not every day a seraph loses their mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No regrets.
> 
> Beta'd by [Arianna.](http://willowywings.tumblr.com/) <3

The bullet may as well have entered Castiel's own chest for the way he feels it. He feels the cold wave of terror that precedes the shot, the sharp surprise when it goes off, the crippling realization of the aftermath.

The worst part is that Castiel isn’t even near Dean when it happens.

He had let himself be lost in the exertion of the battle, let himself push away the overwhelming stress of the consequences resting on their shoulders. He’s been a warrior for almost all of his life; it’s a natural state of mind for him. Thinking too much doesn’t do anyone any good, not when facing down a legion of demons, and with Gabriel and his top garrison surrounding him, it’s entirely too easy to move on instinct—to weave farther and farther into the battlefield, to let themselves get pushed away from their goal in the process.

Castiel had chosen to leave Dean’s side. He had known the risks. He had known the situation he left his mate in was dangerous, even for a hunter as skilled as Dean.

And yet he’d gone anyway.

The sharp pain in both of their chests—it’s his own fault. He did this. If he had been at Dean’s side, if he had been better, if he had been faster—but he wasn’t. It hasn’t even been a day since he held his mate in his arms, rocked his crying form to sleep. Not even a day since he sang Dean the lullaby Gabriel used to sing for him, soft words promising unity and trust and love.

It may all have been for naught, with this turn of events. Castiel knows what this particular pain means. It’s impossible not to recognize.

The trio of demons Castiel had been fending off are felled by the force of his scream alone, his grace gone too rampant for them to have ever stood a chance. His blade slips from his loose fingers and falls to the dirt, forgotten.

Castiel charges to Dean’s side as quickly as he is able, wings propelling him, both too distracted to fully take flight and too desperate to move at a human’s pace. He ignores everything that lies between himself and his mate, none of it important enough to break him from the frantic state he has fallen into.

He ignores angels and demons alike, all of whom stop and simply stare toward the scene in front of the Devil’s Gate after the gunshot rings out through the air. Or perhaps it was his scream that ground the battle to a halt. The angels will all know what’s happening, and in all likelihood, the demons do as well. It’s hardly complicated, and a spectacle besides.

It’s not every day a seraph loses their mate.

The second gunshot sounds, and John’s body drops. Instead of being a relief, however, the suicide enrages Castiel. It’s too easy, too quick of a death for the monstrous hell spawn held within. Had Castiel reached them first, he would have burned John and Azazel alive, then scattered their atoms across the universe. He despises the fact that he has been deprived of such a simple act of vengeance. The only vengeance he could have hoped to have.

Around him, demons begin to depart from the battlefield. Spectacle or otherwise, they have no reason to wait around without their leader, and doing so would only increase their chances of being killed. It’s a testament to the severity of the situation that none of Gabriel’s garrison so much as move a wing in an effort to stop any of them.

Castiel pays no attention to any of this. Bobby gets added to the list of things he bypasses, as well. He ignores the man and his broken legs, his incoherent shouts and panic over his surrogate son’s fate. He ignores Jess’ still form, crumpled at the foot of a tombstone. He doesn’t spare her enough attention to even assess whether she’s alive or not. Someone else can have that responsibility.

He ignores Sam, as well. The man stands, slack-jawed and staring at his brother, eyes no longer black. He staggers when Castiel flies past him, but makes no move to intervene.

Cas catches Dean right as he falls.

"Dean!" Castiel carefully cups Dean's face in one of his hands and tries to tilt his head up, to get Dean to look at him. Dean's eyes are slow to focus on the angel, and struggle to hold their position once they do. Cas grips him tighter, his other arm looped beneath his mate's shoulder to keep him upright.

Blood flows freely from the wound in Dean's chest, the sight of it making Castiel's stomach turn. He can't fix it while positioned as they are, however. He needs to have focus to do this, to calm his grace enough to knit Dean's flesh back together. He's too panicked to do it now, his terror too thick. Lowering Dean to the ground is delicate work, but Castiel accomplishes it nonetheless, cradling Dean in wings and arms like the precious thing he is. He holds his mate’s head carefully while he adjusts his own position, moving to pillow it on his lap.

Once Dean is settled, he seems to have an easier time focusing, and he blinks dazedly at the angel holding him. He mumbles something that sounds like "Hey, Cas," and his lips stretch in a macabre attempt at a smile. His face is too pale, the inside of his mouth too red, full of blood with no place to go, now that his chest is torn up. Violent trembles wrack the man's body, unceasing despite the soothing hand Castiel runs through his hair.

"You're okay," he mutters automatically, eyes leaving Dean's only long enough to quickly inspect the chest wound the Colt inflicted. The bullet hole itself is a few inches across, made worse by the gun's innate power, and the flesh around it has already begun to wither and decay. Castiel swallows around the lump that rises in his throat, and says in an attempt to be soothing, "You're going to be alright, Dean, just stay awake."

Gently, oh so very gently, Castiel touches his hand to the wound, fingertips planted all around it and palm hovering over the center. He lets his grace pour from his fingertips and into the torn skin and muscle and organs, urging it all to knit back together—

But nothing happens. There is no healing, no repair. The damage remains untouched, and Dean’s life force continues to leak out through it.

A strangled cry breaks out of the angel’s chest. He presses his hand more forcefully against the wound, wincing when more blood bubbles up between his fingers. Dean doesn’t seem to notice the added pressure, just as he doesn’t notice the influx of grace, more of it than last time.

Still, nothing happens. His grace hits the stain of the Colt’s influence and simply rebounds, the powers mixing as well as oil and water.

No.

No. No no no no.

There’s a tug at their bond, Dean’s soul beginning to drift and pull at the strands which keep them connected.

Castiel’s head snaps up, forgetting about the incurable gore on his mate’s chest and leaning over the omega’s head again. He cups Dean’s face with his bloodied hand, heedless of the mess the touch spreads, hoping to get the man to look at him. It has only marginal success, and Cas’ intensity increases.

“Dean, stay awake! Keep your eyes on me, can you do that?”

Dean's eyes roll slightly in their sockets, but still manage to stay on his mate reasonably well. There's a moment's delay, and then his head flops to one side, then the other, in answer.

A denial.

He holds Dean closer, wings pressing tight against his back to keep from trembling. He looks up, not so much searching the crowd of onlookers as just shouting into it, “ _Gabriel_!” Then softer, directed downward once again, "Come on, Dean, just do this one thing for me. Hang on just a bit longer, love.”

If Dean heard him this time, he gives no indication of it. His eyes, at least, are still on the angel above him. His mouth works soundlessly for a moment before the words eventually find their way out, the blood that coats his mouth muddling them.

“Guess I—” Dean seizes briefly, a broken attempt at a cough rattling through his damaged chest. All it manages to accomplish is a rise of fresh blood between his lips, and likely a spike of pain. Castiel cradles him closer, supports him as well as he can. “Probably shoulda put a… put a ring on it when I had the chance, huh Cas?” The remains of his chest rattle again, and his lips twitch upward. “Sam… Sam said that. Dunno why I ‘member it. Stupid.”

Despite his odd way of phrasing it, the sentiment that Dean is trying to express is not lost on Castiel. It has tears brimming in the alpha’s eyes, and he soothes his omega gently, struggling to speak around the lump in his throat, “It’s not stupid. It’s okay, Dean, you still have the chance, do you hear me?”

He doesn’t, evidently, because his consciousness wavers and his head lolls, leaving Castiel without an answer. It sends his panic levels racing back upwards, his only consolation being that the state his mate has fallen into more closely resembles sleep than a submission to death.

Between one frantic beat of Cas’ heart and the next, Gabriel arrives. He stands stoically on Dean’s other side, wings held low in a gesture of respect. In a gesture of mourning.

Normally, such a sight would unsettle Castiel. Gabriel isn’t one to make such gestures lightly. The _archangels_ don’t do it lightly, typically holding themselves above such things to set themselves as the pillars for the rest of the angels who look up to them.

He hasn’t seen his brother lower his wings like this since Lucifer fell.

With his mate passed out and struggling to breathe in his arms, however, it’s easy enough to block from his mind.

“Gabe, he—my grace, it’s not enough. It’s—it’s not making a difference, I can’t _do_ anything—”

“The Colt kills everything,” Gabriel interrupts with a tone of finality. He shakes his head, his expression etched with a fearful sort of sadness. “I don’t know what the effect would be on a human, but Cassie… He’s not fully human.”

Castiel holds Dean tighter, like it might make a difference in keeping Dean’s life from draining away. An awful weight settles in his chest, twisting at his heartstrings and pulling a sound like a sob from his chest. “So it’s my fault. If I hadn’t—if he were fully human, he might not be dying.”

“It is _not_ your fault,” the archangel growls, eyes tinting red. “Shot like he was, he probably would have gone down anyway. He _still_ wouldn’t be able to be healed if you hadn’t mated him, because that would mean you weren’t around _at all_ , so it’s a moot goddamn point.”

The argument means nothing to Castiel, so he doesn’t waste his breath trying to refute it. It’s still his fault, Dean wouldn’t be _dying_ , he would be _fine_ , he—

“Why don’t _you_ heal him, then?” Sam demands of Gabriel. Castiel hadn’t noticed him coming closer, but he now stands only a few feet behind the archangel, glaring at the back of his head. Farther back, Cas sees as he takes a quick glance away from Dean, Bobby and Jess stand together, both fully revived and exuding confusion and grief. Sam continues, tone dripping with derision, “If this is some stupid thing about _mates_ or whatever, just get the hell over yourselves and _save him_.”

Gabriel tenses, but doesn’t turn to face him. He says simply, tone sharp, “I can’t.”

Sam’s expression darkens further, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. For a moment, his eyes flicker to black, abruptly reminding Castiel that he is not himself. “Bullshit. You’re an _archangel_ , the biggest cosmic force in the universe, short of God. You _can_ fix him, you just _won’t_.”

“I said I CAN’T!” Gabriel whirls then, advancing a step toward Sam. The harsh flare of his golden wings lack conviction in the light of his ongoing distress, but the gesture is still enough to have Sam flinching, however minutely. “You think I wouldn’t do it if I could? You think I wouldn’t save your brother’s life if I could? Save _my_ brother’s life?”

Sam tries to interrupt, still grasping at straws, “For all I know—”

“You _don’t know_!” Gabriel shouts over him. “And considering you’re the reason he was shot in the first place, I would watch what you say a bit more carefully, _Samuel_. Any efforts that can be made here?” He points at Dean and Castiel in the dirt. “Are _useless_. Colt trumps all, end of story. Its power would need to be purged from Dean’s system completely, and even _I_ can’t manage that. So shut your mouth, before I have to do it for you.”

Castiel’s attention is more on Dean than it is on their brothers, but the words ring through him regardless, and he goes still.

The power needs to be purged.

Dean’s body needs a reset, something new in his system to flush out the toxin of the Colt’s bullet, the combination of strong magic and an angel’s blade. A single burst of grace isn’t going to cut it.

But if it’s more that Dean needs, there’s more that Castiel is willing to give.

Gabriel and Sam have gone on bickering, Sam noticeably less hostile and now sounding more desolate than before, but Castiel pays them no mind. He knows what he has to do, the only thing he _can_ do, and he’s resolute.

“Gabriel, I’m giving him my grace.”

Whatever Gabriel had been saying to Sam gets cut off mid-sentence, all of the air leaving his lungs at once. There’s a beat of silence as he stares at his brother. Castiel doesn’t look up. He can’t. But—

“Cassie, that… that’s suicide. You’ll overload his soul, burn out your grace. No one’s attempted it since Gadreel, and you know what happened to him!”

“I have to try.” Castiel is already moving into place, sliding his trench coat and suit jacket off his shoulders and tossing them away. He pushes his shirtsleeves to his elbows, fingers leaving smears of blood in their wake. Dean’s blood.

The sight only hardens Castiel’s resolve.

He grits his teeth and cards the fingers of his clean hand through his mate’s hair, telling his brother, “If it doesn’t work, at least I don’t have to watch him die. I can’t do that. I won’t.”

With every moment that passes, Dean’s life force dwindles further, and his soul drifts a little bit more, readying to leave for whatever afterlife awaits him.

Will he go to Heaven, as a human is supposed to? Or has his soul taken on enough angelic qualities to send him to _that_ unknown, where Castiel can follow him?

From what Castiel can gather through their deteriorating bond, Dean knows how dire his situation is, too. His lips twitch again like he’s going to say something. Cas isn’t sure he wants to hear the words that might follow, but he doesn’t have the heart to hush the omega, either.

He shifts further out from under Dean to better position himself over his mate, holding him carefully. If there’s to be any chance of success, the transfer needs to go as smoothly as possible.

“Castiel,” Gabriel calls, desperation clear in his voice, “please, little bro, don’t do this. We don’t have to lose you both.”

Cas pays him no mind. He reaches his grace toward Dean’s soul, unsure of how to do exactly what he wants but far past the point of caring about finesse. He hesitates, though, because he can’t do this wrong, he _can’t_ —

“Cas.”

“Dean, hold on.” He slides a hand to Dean’s shoulder and grips it tight, the other cupped carefully beneath the curve of his neck. “I’m going to fix this, I just need you to _stay with me_ , _please_.”

Dean doesn’t seem to hear him. He continues, voice barely there, “I’m s-sorry. Love you.”

A sob cracks out of Castiel’s chest, and the tears that have already been blurring his vision spill over onto his cheeks. His connection with Dean’s soul is tenuous at best, worsening by the second. If Cas is doing this, he needs to do it now.

Gabriel makes a strangled sound, but thankfully he doesn’t try to intervene, merely calling out, “Cas, don’t—”

Castiel pours out everything he has, and when soul and grace clash in an explosion of energy, he lets it take him.

The last thing he sees is the gold of Dean’s soul.

~

_Gabriel finds his brother in the Garden._

_The young seraph is huddled close to the trunk of one of the largest trees in the grove, black wings cocooned around him as he trembles. His bare feet are the only parts of him that are visible when the archangel comes to land farther down on the wide branch, something he doesn’t seem to notice._

_Gabriel approaches slowly, trying to get a read on just how distressed the little guy is. When he’s standing next to him, however, he only gets so far as to reach a hand into the feathery mass and touch the top of his head, before he’s suddenly assaulted by a blur of black, white, and tan. He staggers back a step under the force, but wraps his arms around his fledgling anyway, saying softly, “Oh, Cassie. It’s alright, little bro, I promise.”_

_Castiel shakes his head, rubbing his face into Gabe’s chest as a result. He doesn’t say anything, but Gabriel can’t really say he blames him for that._

_Not with Jediael’s lamenting cries stretching into their fourth hour without end._

_They’re less audible here in the trees, but audible nonetheless, just as they are throughout the rest of Heaven. They ring out through the air and over prayer channels alike, making them impossible to avoid._

_It’s not her fault, though. Not really. A true-mate bond between two angels is the strongest connection possible between any two beings. So, as could only be expected, the breaking of that bond is the most painful._

_A group of angels from Michael’s most elite garrison had wound up in a skirmish with a group of demons. Their intended mission had only been to scout along a segment of Hell’s border where one of Lucifer’s task forces had been kicking up trouble. Michael is still trying to determine whether it was a trap to begin with or simply a misfortune, but either way, it didn’t go as planned._

_Ten scouts left Heaven. Nine returned. Azariah’s body was unable to be recovered, leaving her mate with no chance at solace._

_Jediael’s been inconsolable to all who have tried, her distress over her omega’s death having informed the rest of Heaven of the mission’s failure long before the survivors even made their return._

_“Come on, kiddo,” Gabriel says on a sigh, guiding Castiel back toward the tree trunk with gentle touches. The little seraph stays close to him while they move, desperate for the comfort his brother offers. When Gabriel settles himself down against the trunk, Castiel sits on his lap and curls into his chest without hesitation, just like he used to when he was a quarter of the size he is now._

_Just like he used to before his training in Michael’s garrison began. Before Lucifer fell and the war began, before he had to learn to compartmentalize and be a stoic little soldier._

_To see Cas revert back to the way things had been before shatters Gabriel’s heart._

_“Why does she have to cry like that?” Castiel asks quietly, pulling the archangel from his thoughts. When he glances down, he finds the little seraph cradling his head in his hands, one ear pressed firmly against Gabe’s chest like the sound of his heartbeat might act as a suitable distraction. He continues, gaining speed as he talks, “She isn’t—she isn’t like this, I know Jediael, she’s one of Raphael’s best. I’ve worked with her, Gabe, and I was friends with—” He chokes on the name, then skips it all together. “—so I’ve_ talked _to her, I_ know _her.” His next breath rattles in his chest, and his eyes close tightly when he asks again, “Why?”_

 _“It’s okay, Cassie,” Gabriel replies. He makes a few soft, soothing sounds, wordless coos, as he rubs his hand between his brother’s wing joints. The overwhelming fear and sadness that pour out of his fledgling make Gabriel ache, and he wants nothing more than to put a stop to it. He tries his best to explain, “What Jediael is going through is only to be expected. Losing a true mate is the worst thing an angel can go through. Jediael and Azariah were intertwined in every way. Jed lost half of her being, half of her_ self _. We can’t blame her for this.”_

_Castiel is quiet for a small span of time, taking this in. When he speaks again, his words are the last Gabe would have expected to hear._

_“I never want to find my true mate.”_

_Gabriel winces. “Cassie, don’t talk like that.”_

_“No. If this is what it’s like to lose them, then I don’t want it.”_

_“Castiel, if you have a true mate out there, you…” Should meet them no matter the cost? Should sign up to go through what Jediael is going through? No. He redirects. “If you have a true mate, Father intended for you to meet them. There are benefits to having mates, too. The chances of death are as slim as they are with any angel. You will be happy to have your mate, I promise.”_

_The little seraph doesn’t reply, but Gabriel knows he took the words to heart anyway. Castiel takes everything to heart, and he always has. It’s why he’s so upset by this recent turn of events, why the war as a whole is crushing him._

_Gabriel just holds him. It’s all he can do for now, until they know just what the ultimate cost will be for Azariah’s death. He holds Castiel close, trying to be however much of a comfort the little seraph needs._

_He loses track of just how long the two of them sit like that, huddled together on their tree branch with the far-off alpha’s cries weighing on their graces. It feels as though it lasts for an eternity, all of Heaven waiting with bated breath for the end they all know is coming. They all want nothing more than for her to pull through, but they’re realistic, as well._

_When it stops, it does so without warning._

_Cas flinches, his breath growing more uneven as his wings press tight against his back. Even without words, Gabe agrees full-heartedly. He tightens his arm around his brother’s shoulders, holding him in preparation for the final call._

_After a few moments, another angel makes the official announcement._

**_She used her blade. We’ve lost her._ **

_A sob tears out of Castiel’s chest, and then his wet face is buried completely against Gabriel’s collarbone. He cries until he can’t possibly cry any longer, then somehow finds the strength to cry a bit more. His brother holds him through it all, swaddling him in golden feathers and soothing his distress._

_Gabriel doesn’t once stop to address his own upset on the matter. It may be that neither of the angels involved belonged to one of his garrisons, but like Cas, he knew them. It’s different too, Gabe would imagine, viewing the losses from an archangel’s perspective rather than from a seraph’s. His position means that guarding his brethren is his own responsibility. It hurts, failing that responsibility._

_But he doesn’t let himself think about any of this, not for any extended period of time. Castiel comes first, and he always will. Gabriel will fix him before fixing himself._

_“Gabe,” Castiel whispers some time later, his voice rough as his fingers clench tight in the front of the archangel’s wrap. His tears have dried, but the minute trembling of his wings against his back give him away. “Where do we go after we die?”_

_The question brings Gabriel up short, momentarily distracting him from his own thoughts. Cas’ eyes are fixed on a far-off point on the Garden’s floor, but those blue are so full of sorrow, ringing so clear with a need to_ know _that the archangel couldn’t possibly miss the intensity of the situation._

_He could tell his brother a number of things, he thinks. He could tell him about the place in Heaven their Father carved out for humans to go, and say that there may be a place for all of them there one day as well. He could fabricate a story about an afterlife just for them, what may be waiting in the place no one has returned from. He could tell him about Purgatory, where inhuman souls roam for an eternity, never resting, never achieving peace._

_He could tell him anything. But he won’t. Not now, not with this crushing silence that has descended over all of Heaven, and not to his little brother, trembling in his arms._

_Instead, he holds Cas closer, ignoring the prickling threat of tears in his eyes._

_“I don’t know, kiddo,” he confesses, stroking his fingers through the mess of his fledgling’s hair. The words burn his throat. “I don’t know.”_


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where is Dean?” 
> 
> Gabriel’s expression tightens, and his lips twitch like he’s trying not to wince. He looks away and says shortly, “He’s recovering.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.. I went AWOL again. I know. I'm sorry. It's been a hectic two months (and I hate saying that, holy shit). I'm not going to try make excuses, because excuses mean nothing, but to give you an idea of how genuine I am in saying I've been busy, since you've heard from me last, I: moved into a new house; went to RTX; saw Hamilton (in NY, mind you; I'm from WA); kicked ass during gishwhes, MET MISHA. 
> 
> And... I'm going a bit far with this. Sorry. Um. Anyway. Last main chapter here, friends! Just an epilogue to go, and I'm not going to make you wait long for that, I promise. 
> 
> So, without further ado: enjoy. :)

Castiel wakes with a gasp.

Normally, something so dramatic would irritate him on principle alone, but considering he didn’t think he’d wake up at all, he can’t really find it in himself to be bothered. It’s a trivial detail in light of the bigger revelation.

He’s awake. Which means he’s not dead. Didn’t he think he was going to be dead?

A split second after this thought registers, Castiel lurches into an upright position, wings flailing in his confusion. They bump against numerous surfaces and he thinks he hears something break before he manages to tuck them into subspace and remove the distraction. Before he can actually take stock of the situation, however, he abruptly finds himself caught in a flurry of golden feathers as Gabriel appears out of thin air, practically crushing the seraph with the force of his hug. Kisses are peppered all across his face, and Castiel flounders beneath the surprise onslaught. His mental functions aren’t yet ready to process all that’s happening, and his confusion only deepens.

“Gabriel—What—Can you—”

“You shut your beautiful face, Cassie,” Gabriel says, slapping his palm across Castiel’s mouth to silence him. His irises practically glow with intensity, red teasing at the natural gold. It’s not an angry red, though—just the change that comes from strong emotions surging through the archangel’s grace. That same grace then sweeps through Castiel, checking the younger angel for wounds or weaknesses, then turns even brighter than before with glee at coming up empty.

And then Cas gets smacked upside the head, jarring the happiness of the moment.

Despite the joy still evident in arch of his wings, Gabriel narrows his eyes dangerously. “For Dad’s sake, Cassie, what the hell were you thinking, going supernova like that? I know desperate times call for desperate measures, but fucking—”

Now it’s Castiel’s turn to interrupt. He sits up sharply, dislodging Gabriel and flinging himself up from the bed—he’s in a bed. He _was_ in a bed. In… Sam’s room, in Bobby’s house.

He had forgotten what happened. How had he forgotten?

Dean. Dean, he has to find Dean. Has to get to Dean, needs to see him, needs to know he’s okay. Why isn’t he already with him, why are they separated? He can feel Dean’s presence in the bond, but that’s not _enough_ , he needs to _see_ him, he needs—

“Hey, hey!” Gabriel’s frantic voice brings Castiel back to awareness, and he realizes he’s leaning heavily against a wall. Apparently he’s not as recovered as the two of them had hoped, if he can’t even make it out of the room. Castiel blinks dazedly and looks up at his brother—hovering in front of him and ready to help, hands half-extended in expectation of it becoming necessary—in time for him to continue, “Don’t push this too hard, alright? Your grace is depleted as all get-out right now. Max capacity looks a bit lowered, too, from what I can tell. I swear to _Dad_ , Castiel, if you keel over on me _now_ —”

“Where is Dean?”

Gabriel’s expression tightens, and his lips twitch like he’s trying not to wince. He looks away and says shortly, “He’s recovering.”

Castiel’s stomach drops. “What does that mean,” he asks, more of a demand than a question. He stumbles forward and grabs his brother, fisting his hands in the front of his shirt. “Gabriel, tell me where he is, _now_.”

The archangel stares at him for a long moment and then sighs, his wings pressing in tight against his back in defeat. “He’s in his room.” Cas immediately turns to head in that direction, but is stopped by an iron grip on his forearm. He doesn’t approve of being further delayed—he should _already_ be with Dean; they shouldn’t have been separated in the first place—but the look on Gabriel’s face stalls him. “I haven’t been in there in a while, but… Prepare yourself. I don’t know how recovered he is, or what you should expect. He hasn’t woken up. He wasn’t looking too hot when I saw him last.”

Castiel takes a measured, steadying breath, fighting the urge to run straight to his mate without hearing any more. But he has to know. “How… How long has it been?”

“Three days.”

Three days. It may not be the most reassuring length of time to be unconscious after a near-death experience, but it also could have been a lot worse. As it is, given the circumstances of this particular near-death experience—Father knows there’s been enough of them of late—no length of recovery time would garner a complaint. Not when the alternative was death.

And for the moment, one thing is clear.

He needs to see Dean. Right now.

He pulls away from his brother without another word, and this time, he doesn’t let himself be deterred. Dean’s bedroom is only two doors down the hallway from Sam’s, a walk that takes only a few seconds, but even during that time, his concern skyrockets.

Gabriel hasn’t been in to check on Dean. Why he hasn’t, Castiel has no idea, but that means that Dean could be in any state when Cas reaches him. His mate is undeniably alive, the solidity of the bond in his chest enough to tell him at least that much, but he’s unconscious as well, which makes it near impossible to determine more.

 _He wasn’t looking too hot_ , Gabriel said. That could be an indicator for anything.

Dean could be injured.

Dean could be damaged or handicapped, in his soul, his body—if anything has happened, it may very well be irrevocable. And if that’s the case…

Castiel doesn’t know how he’ll live with himself.

By the time he’s at Dean’s door, the seraph is truly expecting to find Dean in a state that matches these fears in any number of ways. He’s expecting it so thoroughly that when he finally barges into the small but familiar bedroom, the sight that awaits him isn’t one he was even remotely prepared for. He freezes in place only a few strides into the room, and his mind goes blank. It feels as though all the air has been sucked from the room with the way he suddenly can’t breathe.

Wings.

Dean has wings.

They’re folded haphazardly against his naked back, the ends falling over the edge of the bed, but undeniably _his_. His feathers are golden brown in color—a shade not unlike his hair, definitely more brown than has ever been found on the typical color spectrum for angel wings—and the tips of his longest primary feathers fade to a deep, familiar shade of black. That same black is scattered in a dapple sort of pattern on his covert feathers, densest near his bare shoulders.

They’re absolutely beautiful.

They’re absolutely impossible.

Castiel can see all of this in front of him, but he can’t get himself to believe it. His _human mate_ has _wings_. It’s not something he can comprehend. It doesn’t make _sense_ , it shouldn’t have _happened_ , it shouldn’t—

“Holy shit,” Gabriel breathes from somewhere over Castiel’s shoulder, and if Castiel weren’t currently choking on his own tongue, he would call his brother out for voicing the biggest understatement in the history of creation.

“Gabriel—”

At the sound of Castiel’s voice, Dean moves, the surprise of it cutting his question off in an instant. The alpha suddenly finds himself waiting with bated breath as his omega shifts, the action appearing to only be the result of an uneasy sleep until green eyes slit open and he whines out, hands extending blindly, “ _Cas, need you_.”

Cas crosses the distance between them without a moment’s hesitation, unable to even consider the possibility of denying him. The seraph carefully lifts his mate’s upper body so that he can slip in beneath him, a maneuver that’s both incredibly similar to and nothing like the last time it was utilized. He rakes his fingers through Dean’s hair as soon as he is able, and soothes, “It’s alright, Dean. I’m right here, beloved. I’m here.”

As an extended offer of comfort, Castiel immediately manifests his own wings, draping them over and around Dean, careful not to exert pressure on _Dean’s_ wings and cause discomfort. Even with the second pair of wings present, Castiel doesn’t anticipate there being anything unusual about the action, which is why he ends up being so startled by what he sees.

In a similar fashion to Dean’s new wings, Castiel’s are no longer solid in color. A number of his primary feathers fade into a tawny shade of gold that’s already becoming familiar, and he can see speckles of that same gold clumped near his shoulder blades, as well. Although he can’t see further behind himself, he doesn’t doubt that the dappling pattern is reminiscent of Dean’s.

Aside from the obvious reversals of primary versus highlight colors, the only difference between the patterns seems to be that Castiel’s is sparser, his speckles fewer and farther apart. Given the way Cas’ grace was wielded to save Dean, now shared between the two of them, the seraph supposes such a distribution of blended features is only to be expected.

Dean instinctively curls into Cas’ lap the instant they come in contact, burying his face in the lower hem of his mate’s t-shirt and bringing an end to said mate’s mental tangent about his own wings. Those observations can wait until Dean is no longer trembling in his arms, tawny wings shaking when they press in closer to his back and scent—stronger and more angelic than ever before, still entirely familiar—no longer undeniably distressed.

On the other side of the room, Gabriel laughs suddenly, sounding both out of his depth and far too amused by this turn of events. Castiel looks up, already having nearly forgotten his brother was there, and the archangel says, “Oh, Cassie. You’re in _so_ far over your head here, baby bro.”

Before the seraph can do more than glare in response, Dean makes a sound of discontent and mumbles, “Shuddup, Gabe.”

Gabriel laughs again, this time sounding closer to _amused_. “It speaks! And here I was thinking we’ve already seen the surprise of the millennia. Guess you’re fine, then, huh Dean? Already stepping in to defend your man’s honor?”

“Gabriel, this isn’t the time.”

“Fuck no, it’s not,” Dean grumbles. He burrows further into Cas, then, arms circling his mate’s waist. Castiel strokes his hair again and earns a contented sigh for his efforts. Over the next few moments, Dean seems to become a bit more aware of himself and his surroundings, his scent beginning to clear and his hands fisting in Cas’ shirt as he asks blearily, “So, what’d I miss? How the fuck are we alive right now?”

“You got lucky as _shit_ ,” Gabriel answers. Castiel rewards him with a flat stare, but unfortunately, he can’t deny his brother that one. The fact of the matter is, he and Dean _are_ lucky.

They’re both here. They’re both alive. It’s more than either of them dared to hope for when they were last pressed together.

Furthermore, Castiel neither blasted a crater in the side of the earth nor disintegrated himself or Dean when he blended his grace with Dean’s soul. He’ll consider those factors evidence of their luck, as well.

Dean snorts, apparently having been focused on the bond enough to hear those thoughts.

“G’job, Cas,” he says, amusement clear despite how slurred the words are. A shiver wracks his body then, his wings shaking with it. The motion draws Castiel’s complete attention—and makes Castiel’s heart constrict, every effort he makes not to stare at the new limbs proving futile—but somehow, Dean doesn’t seem to notice. It gets Castiel thinking that perhaps Dean is already aware of his changes, but before the seraph can figure out how to ask, his mate continues, “How’d you even figure out how to heal me? Colt kills everything, but I feel just fine. Kinda would’ve expected _something_ to be off.”

Ah.

Right. There’s the answer Cas had been looking for.

He clears his throat. What is the proper way to call attention to this? “Dean, it seems that the amount of grace I poured into your soul had… side effects. One such effect being… Well. Perhaps you should look?”

At first, all Cas gets from Dean confusion and even a dash of concern—but then he does as his mate suggested and props himself up on his elbows to more easily look over his shoulder, and suddenly Dean’s end of the bond is filled with the equivalent of white noise.

One of Dean’s wings raises up and away from his back, then extends halfway, the black tips of his primary feathers nearly brushing the ceiling. It collapses back down with a soft _fwump_ a moment later, leaving the room’s three occupants staring mutely.

Dean blows out a rough breath. “Well. Ain’t that some shit.” He flops his head down against his mate’s shoulder, gripping at the front of his t-shirt. “Fuck, I’d really hoped that part was a dream. Am I dreaming right now? _Did_ I die? Cas, are we dead?”

Castiel chuckles at that. “We’re not dead, beloved,” he assures his mate, brushing his hand through his hair again. He aches to touch Dean’s feathers as well, but he isn’t sure the omega will be ready for that, what with the wings being so new and foreign. The last thing Cas wants is for him to be overstimulated right now, or to be hurting any more than he is. “Surprising though it is, I can assure you, we’re quite alive.”

“So there’s no need for the melodrama, Dean-o,” Gabriel quips. “You’re an angel now—congrats! No refunds or returns. Don’t get any funny ideas.”

Even with his face hidden, Dean’s eye-roll is obvious, and he raises his middle finger in the archangel’s direction. It’s an incredibly satisfying reaction, but Gabriel still laughs.

Castiel elects to ignore his brother’s antics altogether. He knows Gabe is pleased that they survived, but that doesn’t mean his current behavior is any less obnoxious than it is. Cas is about to steer the conversation back to his mate’s new wings when something else catches his eye, and he goes still.

There’s a patch of raised skin on Dean’s shoulder—a shape that twists around his upper arm and extends out of sight. How Castiel had not noticed it before, he has no idea, but with the way Dean had moved his arm to gesture at Gabriel, it became impossible _not_ to notice, the skin red and angry-looking, like a blister.

Dean is staring at him now, but Castiel pays him no mind. He reaches to gently rotate Dean’s body just a little bit further so that he can see the blemish more clearly.

The mark, splayed crookedly across the skin above the omega’s bicep, is the perfect imprint of a hand.

Dean had followed Cas’ gaze, and he makes a surprised sort of sound as he also takes note of the mark for the first time. “Dude, is that…”

It is. Castiel knows it is. Still, something is pulling at his gut, telling him to _prove it_ , so he cautiously raises his right hand and slots his fingers into place.

Immediately, the seraph’s grace leaps toward his mate, racing down through his palm and surging to meet Dean’s soul—which is now more grace than soul, but no less bright and golden than ever—which seems just as eager for the contact. When they meet, they meld together like that’s their natural state, electrifying every cell in Castiel’s body. Dean gasps and arches into the touch, and both of their wings snap out as wide as is possible in the small room.

And that’s where Castiel should probably stop that.

As soon as his hand is no longer aligned with the handprint, the associated sensations coursing through each of their bodies cuts off. It leaves Castiel overwhelmed and struggling to breathe evenly, and Dean much the same.

“What,” Dean pants after a few seconds of stunned silence, wings partially fluffed and looking incredibly flustered, “the fuck.”

Castiel stares at the handprint with barely-contained awe. “This was the transfer point,” he says, reaching out to trace his fingertips around the mark’s outer edges and marveling at the way the scorched skin makes them tingle. “When my grace poured into your soul, this point of contact became the conduit, keeping us both grounded in the process. It’s quite possible that this mark is also to thank for the fact that we weren’t both completely destroyed by what I did.”

Dean stares for a moment longer, then lets out a strangled laugh and scrubs his palms across his face. “Son of a bitch. Nothing’s easy with you, is it?”

Castiel smiles. “Apparently not.”

A moment passes in silence, and then Dean shifts, wings fluttering against his back in a clear show of his nervousness. “So is this—I mean. I’m an angel now? And what, that’s it, everything’s fine?” He nudges a bit closer to Castiel and looks up at him with a mix of apprehension and hope. “We did it?”

“ _We_ did it,” Gabriel repeats with an exaggerated scoff. “The most _you_ accomplished, Dean-o, was getting capped—which isn’t exactly something you want to write home about, even if it _did_ get John to pop Azazel for us.”

Dean winces at the reminder, guilt spiking through the bond. Castiel lays a gentle hand on his knee, a wordless gesture of solidarity.

“Not to mention,” the archangel continues, full of grandeur and completely oblivious, “who had the angelus ex machina to save the day, huh, jackasses? If I hadn’t had that garrison waiting in the wings, we all would’ve been toast, and the world would have been burnt to a crisp, with Sam wearing a crown made out of bone fragments, or something equally disgusting.”

Without warning, a wave of emotion suddenly crashes through the link between Dean and Cas’ minds with such strength that it leaves the latter reeling, his every thought being derailed as he turns to look at his mate in concern. Dean, for his part, is now sitting up completely straight, wings pinned in terror and eyes locked on Gabriel.

“Sam,” he says, the single word coming out strangled and breathless. “Sam—Where’s Sammy? Where is he, tell me he’s okay.”

With Castiel’s focus so resolutely locked on Dean as it’s been, he hadn’t even let himself think about his mate’s brother. He feels a spot of shame over that, but at the same time, he doesn’t think he can really be blamed. Though now that Dean has brought it up, he shares in his concern, and he shifts his own focus toward his brother as well, desperate for an answer.

Gabriel, however, does not seem nearly as bothered as the couple across from him is. In fact, he almost looks disappointed by the change in subject, which has Castiel’s eyes narrowing dangerously. If his brother is really going to—

“What, we can’t talk about the _positive_ aspects here, for a minute?” Gabriel says, crossing his arms and pouting. “I had to work _hard_ to get that garrison to show up, and to make sure no one else in Heaven heard about it, either. _Or_ we could talk about the modern-day miracle that is the two of you, apparently, because I’m sure there’s a _ton_ there—”

Castiel growls in warning, but Dean’s is louder, and the omega demands, “Gabe, _where is he_.”

“Yeesh, no appreciation for the little things with you two.” Gabriel throws his hands up in the most dramatic fashion possible. “He’s down in the basement, alright? We got him locked in Bobby’s panic room.”

Castiel has no concept of what that means, but Dean tenses. “Why’s he in there?” he asks, quickly followed by, “What happened to him, is he fixed? Azazel said—I mean, is he—” He chokes on his words, prompting Cas to rest a hand on his shoulder in support. Dean leans into the touch only slightly, but that’s still more than enough for the alpha.

Across the room, Gabe remains very clearly unbothered. He leans against the wall, idly flapping a hand before folding it with the other over his chest. “Your bro’s fine, Dean-o. His soul was a bit fucked up from all that Azazel had done to it while he had him, but it was something of a rush job, and honestly, I don’t think the bastard even knew what he was doing. Long story short, I was able to slap enough of a grace-bandaid on that he’ll be ship-shape in no time.” He winks and stretches his hands out in front of himself to crack his knuckles. “Just archangel powers. You know. No biggie.”

“How does that translate to Sam being locked up?” Cas asks, brow furrowed. It’s obvious that Gabriel is in a good mood right now, but the seraph has no time for it. “If you were able to repair his soul—”

“I didn’t _repair_ ,” his brother corrects, “I stuck a bandaid on it. There’s a clear difference. He still needs to sweat the demon-ness out of his system, so until that happens, he’s on lockdown. I was going to let him roam free around the house for that, but.” He shrugs. “He was being a dick. As soon as he tried to insult me for my height, his freedom ran out.”

Dean goes still. Castiel would normally worry that this correlates to him being frightened or angry, but the emotions filtering through the bond are too stunned for that. It’s a subconscious twitch of the omega’s wings that reveal his amusement, only seconds before he says, “Sam… made a short joke?”

Gabriel’s nostrils flare, and he glowers at Dean. “I am not _short_. It’s clear that the Winchesters are apparently genetic freaks and attract similar freaks, but I am taller than _many people_ , thank you.”

“That’s—” Dean shakes his head, making a face that seems to distinctly translate into _I don’t have time for this shit_ , which Castiel can’t say he blames him for. His brother’s sensitivity to his height is obnoxious, to say the least. “You know what, never mind. I gotta go see Sammy.”

Dean is up and off of the bed within seconds, tottering only slightly as he makes a beeline for the door, newness of his wings disrupting his balance. Castiel follows him without hesitation, and in the doorway, Gabe visibly resigns himself to this new course of action. The archangel rolls his eyes and grumbles something about ingrate little brothers before turning on his heel and leading the way downstairs.

Dean is hot on Gabriel’s heels the whole way, his scent becoming increasingly acrid as his stress level rises with every step. Castiel lets their wings brush together as much as possible while they walk in the hopes of keeping him grounded, but ultimately, there isn’t much that he can do to help and he knows it.

It’s not as though Castiel knows what to expect here, either.

They find Bobby first, in the kitchen. The room is quiet when they enter, and the man is seated at the table, his head in his hands and an untouched mug of coffee in front of him, ever-present cap pulled low. He doesn’t notice the new arrivals instantly, instead remaining oblivious until Gabriel comes to an abrupt halt and Dean nearly trips over him, the latter causing enough of a ruckus to draw his attention.

There’s a split-second delay as Bobby takes in the sight before him, and then his eyes widen. He bolts upright in an instant, his chair skittering out from beneath him and falling backwards as a result.

There’s a prolonged silence. Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his wings unfolding and refolding nervously. He raises a hand and waves it weakly in the older man’s direction. “Uh... Mornin’, Bobby.”

Bobby stares for a moment longer, and then between one moment and the next, he’s moving, closing the distance between himself and Dean and pulling the omega into a rough hug. Dean visibly stiffens and glances quickly at Castiel over Bobby’s shoulder, but then all but melts into the embrace, his relief at the man’s acceptance palpable.

“You damn, stupid boy,” Bobby says, emotion making his voice extra gruff. “I thought you were dead. What the hell were you thinkin’, getting shot like that?”

“Not dead,” Dean replies, laughing weakly. “Just, you know—finally turned into that beautiful butterfly like I was always promised. And come on, it’s not like I _wanted_ to be shot. Anyway, all’s well that ends well, right?” Bobby pushes him back to arm’s length to glare at him, and Dean’s expression turns even more sheepish. “I mean, uh… Maybe? Sorry?”

Bobby stares at him for a long moment, then his mouth twitches into the beginnings of a smile, and he shakes his head. “Don’t make that face at me, you idjit. No matter how glad I am that you’re back to your, uh, _mostly_ normal self, you still had me scared outta my wits.

Dean’s face falls slightly, and his wings along with it. “Yeah. I know. Sorry, Bobby. Won’t happen again, I swear.”

That one earns him a laugh. “Don’t even try to make that promise,” Bobby says, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “You Winchesters are magnets for trouble; I’m sure you’ll be back into the fire soon enough.”

The omega doesn’t try to refute that—which Castiel can understand, considering he recognizes the truth of Bobby’s statement as well—but before he can say anything at all, he’s interrupted by a call from the basement.

“Bobby?” Jess shouts, her distant-sounding voice accompanied by the audible stomp of footsteps on the stairs. “Bobby, are you alright? I heard—” She cuts herself off the moment she opens the door into the kitchen, eyes going almost comically wide when she sees the room’s other occupants. “Holy shit, you guys are awake.”

Castiel can see Dean’s nerves quickly sweep back into place as Jess takes in his new limbs, his wings shuffling just as they had when Bobby had done the same. However, Castiel is so caught up monitoring his mate’s reactions that he doesn’t see that Jess is coming to _him_ first, and he gets pulled into a tight hug before he’s even aware of what’s happening.

“Jesus Christ,” Jess breathes, knocking the side of her head against Cas’, “I am _so_ glad you guys are okay. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing the two of you on top of everything else.”

It takes Castiel a moment to get past his surprise, but he smiles and returns Jess’ hug. “Thank you for your concern,” he says. He pats her back and releases her. “I’m glad we’re okay, as well.”

Jess gives him a sappy grin, then turns to haul Dean into the same, crushing hug. “And look at you!” she says when she leans back, still visibly burning with excitement. “Gabe’s been promising us you’d be okay, but _this_ … Dean, holy _shit_.”

Dean’s shy response escapes Castiel as his attention is soon stolen by a second hug, this one from Bobby. It’s no less constricting of an embrace than Jess’ had been, but it lasts a moment longer, and when Bobby pulls away, the strength of his joy is shining too brightly in his eyes for the seraph to miss, the man’s soul practically singing with it.

“For the record,” he says, “I’m damn glad you’re alright, too. Would’ve been a crying shame to lose a fella as good as you, especially so soon after meetin’ ya. But Castiel—” He has trouble speaking for a moment, and he swallows hard before continuing. “Thank you for saving him. I know you did it because you love him, but keeping Dean alive is still not something I’ll ever be able to repay you for.”

Castiel’s eyes feel dangerously damp, and he has to blink quickly to clear it. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to the human, but he knows he must, so he promises the only thing he can think to promise. “I will protect him, always and no matter the cost. You’ll never have to doubt his safety.”

A quiet sigh of relief escapes Bobby, but he’s stopped from responding by a loud crashing sound from the basement. The sound is followed shortly after by a shout that seems to reverberate through the entire house, a scream filled with both anger and agony.

Gabriel blows out a breath. “And… that would be Sam.”

Jess steps away from Dean and toward the basement door, looking pale. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, and she takes a shaky breath before looking to Gabriel. “Gabe, can you give him another hit? It makes him better, and you know as well as I do that if we don’t get him calmed down soon, he’ll start hurting himself against the walls again, trying to get out.”

Gabriel’s lips thin, his wings tightening. “I can give him another hit,” he says, nodding decisively. Within seconds, however, his spine straightens and his expression clears, a wide grin stretching across his face as he turns to beam at his brother. “Hey—I’m not the only conscious angel anymore! Cassie, whaddaya say you come help me pump Sammy-boy full of grace, get that demon gunk burning out of him that much faster? Two bandaids are better than one. Hell, we can even have Dean-o take a crack at it with that fancy new grace of his I can see burning in there—three bandaids!”

Castiel rolls his eyes at the extra commentary about his mate, but ultimately nods. “Anything for Sam.” He takes a quick look at Dean, and discreetly slips his hand into the omega’s. “We’ll join you downstairs in a few minutes, if you want to go ahead? I would like to speak with Dean first.”

Thankfully, no one objects to that, not even Dean himself. The two humans merely nod their understanding and file down into the basement. Gabriel lingers for a moment longer, giving Castiel a brief, pointed stare, but then he too is nodding before vanishing with a flick of his wings.

As soon as everyone is gone, the tough front that Dean had been putting on—easily seen through by Castiel, his mate’s jaw clenched a little too tightly, his scent too stale—melts away. He stares forlornly at the basement door for a long moment, and he squeezes Cas’ hand for support.

“Dean?”

The man shakes his head. His hand flexes in Castiel’s. “So we’re just gonna, what, juice him up until he’s back to normal? I doubt _I_ can even help with that, no matter what Gabe’s spouting, because I don’t—I don’t have _grace_ , right? I can’t do—I can’t _heal_ or anything, I’m not…”

Castiel takes a careful breath. He knows that this is something that will take time to get Dean to adjust to, this new state of being—but they have time, in abundance. He understands the stress over Sam, of course, and he’ll do everything in his power to help the younger Winchester, but that doesn’t mean _Dean_ needs to be pushed harder than is strictly necessary.

Instead of trying to figure out for to give Dean an actual answer, he uses their linked hands to simply pull his mate closer and into his arms, promising, “Sam will be okay. We’ll get him there, together. He’ll heal, and then everything will again be as it should in no time at all.”

Dean sags against him, wings curling in beneath his alpha’s as he gives himself over fully to the hug. He nods against Cas’ shoulder, the reassurances proving to be all he needed. He’s quiet for a moment, the hum of his thoughts in the bond still being kept to a minimum, until he asks quietly, “And what then? What the hell do we even do after a shitstorm like this?”

Castiel frowns, but only for a second. It wasn’t the follow-up question that he expected. It’s not an unreasonable one, however, and likely one that Castiel himself would be asking—except that he has the beginnings of an idea now pushing to the forefront of his mind, demanding attention, one that took root there long ago.

“There’s one thing I’d like to do after,” he says into his mate’s hair. He swallows down his trepidation and tries to think about nothing but Dean, for just a moment. He wants to savor this. “That is, if you’ll give me the honor.”


	25. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beside him, Gabriel laughs. The sound is too loud in the small room, and the seraph is glaring before he even speaks. “It was _abrupt_ because you broke the ‘no touching’ rule, and couldn’t keep it in your pants. No one’s fault but your own, bucko.”
> 
> Castiel’s frown deepens, which only serves to make Gabriel’s grin widen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.
> 
> This is the final chapter of For Every Alpha an Omega. 
> 
> I have a whole spiel lined up and I was going to put it here at the start, but it grew to be way too long for that, so it's waiting for you at the end. Give it a read, will you? And in the interim--
> 
> Enjoy. <3

**Two Weeks Later**

 

Not for the first time, Castiel fiddles with the knot of his tie, loosening and then tightening it against his throat and smoothing his fingers down the length of it. He’s not quite satisfied with the way it tucks into his coat, and tries—again—to adjust the way the two articles lay together.

Also not for the first time, another pair of hands swats his away, and he gets a grunt of frustration for his efforts. “Damnit, Cassie, just stand still. You’re acting like a fledgling. Why the hell are you even nervous? You’re already mated, for crying out loud.”

“This is _different_ ,” Castiel argues, indignant. They’ve already gone over _this_ as well. Why Gabriel is so resistant to letting it drop, Cas has no idea. Still, he goes on, “This is important to Dean. In his eyes, this is just as big—if not bigger—than a mating. And besides,” he adds, his gaze dropping to his shoes as his tone becomes more glum, “it’s not like our mating was very celebrated. It was rather abrupt.”

Their mating was abrupt, the last several weeks of their lives have been hellish—there’s a lot riding on this ceremony. It’s already been difficult to get to this point, what with Sam’s recovery from Azazel’s influence being far from smooth and Dean’s transition to angelhood proving to be rocky at best. It’s been high-stress for everyone. The least they can do now is provide a distraction from that.

Beside him, Gabriel laughs. The sound is too loud in the small room, and the seraph is glaring before he even speaks. “It was _abrupt_ because you broke the ‘no touching’ rule, and couldn’t keep it in your pants. No one’s fault but your own, bucko.”

Castiel’s frown deepens, which only serves to make Gabriel’s grin widen.

The door cracks open before the two angels can continue bickering, however, and Jess’ glowing face pokes into the room. “Aw, aren’t you guys just adorable!” she cries, beaming as she looks them over. They weren’t yet dressed when they last saw her, back in the lobby of the chapel. Neither was she, for that matter. She’s since changed into a short, form-fitting gold dress and matching heels, and her hair has been styled into a complicated-looking up-do.

Her happiness is the purest it’s been in all the time Castiel has known her, and that fact warms the seraph’s heart.

Castiel casts a smile toward her, latching onto the distraction she provides. “You look lovely as well, Jessica. Has Sam also taken the time to get dressed?”

Jess nods, and comes further into the room. “Sam’s as ready as he’ll ever be. He’s already cried twice. And he was supposed to be a demon king— _please_.” Gabriel snorts at that and she chuckles along, her soul glowing with shared amusement when she moves to stand in front of Cas, meeting his eyes. “Anyways, the Boy-King-who-wasn’t is off soothing the _other_ bride right now,” she adds wryly, reaching to smooth the stress-inflicted wrinkles out of Castiel’s tie and to straighten his appearance as a whole. She steps back when she’s finished, looking pleased with herself. “There, Cas—all better. Oh, and Gabe, you ready? We’re hoping to start within the next few minutes, you should get out there.”

Gabriel nods his understanding, then moves to usher Jess out of the room in the most childlike way imaginable, hands flailing like a toddler’s. “I’ll be out in a minute,” he promises. “Now shoo! No one’s supposed to see the bride before the wedding, you’ve already broken that rule enough.”

Jess laughs, but allows herself to be pushed out the door without complaint, likely knowing just how useless it would be to try to fight the archangel. “That doesn’t even—”

“Too bad,” Gabe says, giving her one last push and then quickly shutting the door behind her. Once they’re alone again, the archangel wastes no time in turning on his brother, but instead of once again taking up the harassing tone that Castiel expected, or even a teasing one, Gabriel’s gaze is soft, and his mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile. A twitch of his shoulder—the closest Castiel can get to reading his wings while they are concealed—is the only warning Cas has before he’s pulled into a crushing hug.

“Gabriel,” Castiel sighs, fighting back his own smile, “I can assure you, this isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, hell yeah it is.” Gabriel’s arms tighten briefly before he pulls back to arm’s length, looking Castiel firmly in the eye. “Listen. I know this is just a human thing, as we’ve established—but I’m still happy for you. Alright? Even if you’re a hopeless romantic with a self-sacrificing streak a mile wide—” He glares as he says this—a not-so-subtle jab for the incident in Wyoming, and then the slow recovery of Castiel’s grace back to full-power that they were forced to endure after—though it quickly softens back out. “—you’ll always be my little brother, and I love you. You got that?”

Cas’ heart swells with emotion. He knows all of this, of course, but Gabriel isn’t the type to express such sentiments aloud often, and especially not with such seriousness. The seraph has the overwhelming urge to hug his brother again, and he doesn’t bother trying to resist. He pulls Gabriel in one last time and mumbles a heartfelt, “Thank you,” his eyes prickling with the threat of tears.

Gabriel huffs, but lets the hug continue for a few additional moments before clearing his throat and stepping away. He straightens the lapels of his navy blue suit jacket, squares his shoulders, then opens the door and starts to step out. He pauses only long enough to turn back and give Castiel a quick, “Good luck, bro.”

Then he’s gone, and Castiel is alone.

His dressing room is quiet, with just him in it. Almost too quiet. And with no further distractions or reassurances, his earlier nervousness threatens to return with a vengeance. He can’t have much time left before his cue, however, so Castiel refuses to give himself over to the nagging worry.

He uses his last moments before the signal comes to take a final look at himself in the floor-length mirror beside the door, taking courage from the image reflected back at him. His suit is as deep a black as his wings, and his tie is a match to the color of his eyes, on Dean’s recommendation.

(Admittedly, they hadn’t discussed much about how this would go, setting out the day after Sam was declared healthy and his soul free of any demonic taint, but Dean had been insistent on this point. His mate’s exact words had been that a blue tie would be ‘hot as fuck’; the seraph had been in no position to argue.)

In all, he looks… Good. His hair refuses to lie flat and he’s still not quite happy with the arrangement of his tie, but overall, that’s not bad. Castiel is hardly vain, yet he knows that his current appearance would earn him the label of ‘attractive’.

He can’t wait to see Dean.

Only seconds later, a track of pre-recorded piano music begins to play over the speakers in the dressing room’s ceiling, and the door in front of Castiel swings open of its own accord. His stomach clenches with a fresh wave of nervousness, but now isn’t the time to delay, so he begins his walk as previously instructed.

Castiel enters the small chapel room with measured footsteps. Jess, Sam, and Bobby are seated in a row of folding chairs to his left, the altar is several feet ahead of him, and the music is still playing—but all of it fades from Cas’ view when he catches sight of his mate walking from his own dressing room on the opposite side of the room, because Dean—Dean is stunning.

Of course, Dean is always stunning, Castiel has never thought anyone more beautiful than he does his mate—but at this moment in particular? His suit, a near-match to Castiel’s, hugs his body perfectly, and even from a distance, his eyes shine as brightly as his smile. There is an unmistakable note of nervousness stemming from Dean’s side of the bond, but despite that, happiness is still clear in every line of his body.

The only factor that could possibly make Dean more beautiful would be the presence of his wings, those golden-brown feathers that Castiel has become so accustomed to seeing over the last two weeks and that frame him with their ethereal beauty. He does, however, understand why they must be absent this evening—human affairs mean human appearances, for both the ceremony and the celebrations they have planned after. It hadn't been easy for Cas and Gabe to coach Dean through concealing his wings while the limbs are still so new, but the omega had eventually managed it, and has since held onto the containment with ease.

It’s only after a long moment of staring at Dean that Castiel fully takes note of what waits between them, and as soon as he does… He sorely wishes he hadn’t.

Gabriel is standing at the altar, his previous formal attire traded for a white leather suit with flared sleeves and pant-legs, emblazoned with multicolored rhinestones and tassels, and topped with a black, pompadour-style wig. What happened to the suit he had been wearing when last he saw him, Castiel can’t even imagine. The archangel’s hands are folded respectfully in front of him, but he’s grinning widely, and practically vibrating with glee.

Cas’ stomach sinks when he takes in his brother’s appearance. He should have known he would do something like this; no affair can be a serious one when Gabriel is involved, after all. Still, it’s no secret that the thought of marriage is an important one to Dean. Gabriel knows that, and yet he decided to pull this stunt anyway.

 ** _You’re my little brother and I love you_ ,** Castiel parrots at him, not without bitterness. **_That didn’t last long, now did it?_**

Behind his gaudy sunglasses, Gabriel waggles his eyebrows. **_Had to soften the blow somehow, now didn’t I?_**

Castiel grits his teeth. By this point both he and Dean have reached the altar from their respective sides of the room and the music has stopped, but the alpha is too irritated to even notice. He continues to glare at his brother—until, that is, Dean laughs, drawing his attention.

Castiel looks imploringly at his mate. “Dean, this isn’t funny,” he hisses. “This is supposed to be serious, event, and he’s—”

“Oh, come on, Cas, it’s fine,” Dean says, smile unfading. He shrugs, and lightly flicks his amusement at Castiel across the bond. “It _is_ a Vegas shotgun wedding. Wouldn’t be complete without a shitty Elvis wannabe.”

Gabriel makes an affronted sound, and puts a hand to his chest. “Ex _cuse_ me—”

In the audience, Bobby snorts. “And, you know, from an objective point of view, even just having an archangel present is pretty damn special. At least he ain’t here to announce the birth of the millennium this time.”

The archangel turns toward the older man and raises a challenging eyebrow. “Oh, I can do that too, Robert, don’t test your luck. I’m sure that once these kids are in wedlock—”

Castiel looks at him sharply. “Gabriel, we’ve been over this—”

“Guys, this is a _wedding_ ,” Jess interrupts with a put-upon sigh. “We only paid for this chapel through the next hour, if we could finish the ceremony by then, that would be great.”

For a moment it looks as though Gabriel is about to argue _that_ as well, but he apparently—wisely—thinks better of it, and instead simply clears his throat and gets down to business. He shifts his stance, fluffs his pompadour, and then makes a sweeping gesture between Dean and Castiel.

“Dearly beloved,” he begins, voice pitched into what Cas can only assume is an impression to match his costume. The seraph barely refrains from scowling at him, only managing it because Dean is still exuding happiness and Castiel is powerless but to echo at least some of his emotions.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the union between the seraph Castiel and the special snowflake human-angel Dean Winchester, which is neither their first union, nor a legally recognized one, so who even knows _why_ —”

“ _Gabriel_ —”

“—why… they haven’t done it sooner!” He shoots Castiel a smug grin, shoulders twitching in a minute shrug. He continues smoothly, “Today we will bear witness to the _holy_ matrimony of two wonderful, love-filled beings, who were bound to be together from the beginning of time itself…”

The rest of the proceedings pass without further sass from Gabriel and, thankfully, without any sort of errors. Gabriel makes a speech—interspersed with bouts of his horrible fake accent, but otherwise straightforward—then Castiel makes his vows, then Dean.

The latter is interrupted only once, when Sam tries to hide his tears by blowing his nose. Dean stumbles mid-sentence and glares at his brother, which encourages Bobby to smack the younger Winchester upside the head.

And then comes the final question.

Gabriel turns to Dean, fluffing his hair again and resettling his sunglasses on his nose. “Dean, do you take Castiel to be your hunk-a-hunk-a burnin’ love?”

Dean blows out a breath, and somehow, his gaze manages to go even softer where it meets Castiel’s. “I do.”

“And Castiel, do you promise to never leave Dean down at the end of lonely street at Heartbreak Hotel?”

Castiel’s tongue feels leaden, but as he looks at his mate standing across from him, his heart stutters in his chest, and the words come easily. “I do.”

Gabriel grins at them both. He waves a hand between the alpha and the omega and declares imperiously, “You may now kiss the groom.”

The words have hardly left Gabe’s mouth before Dean reaches out to wrap his fingers around Cas’ tie and yanks him forward. Castiel stumbles slightly at the surprise of it, but his lack of elegance only lands his lips on Dean’s faster, and once that happens, he ceases to care about anything else.

He’s vaguely aware of applause from the three attending humans, a sob from Sam—he really has been fairly emotional in the aftermath of his detox, his humanity returning with a vengeance—a soft, Enochian blessing from Gabriel… But kissing Dean, his mate, his husband—outshines all of it.

The rest can wait.

~

Sam, Jess, and Gabriel throw back their shots in unison, bringing the two humans’ count to six apiece, and the archangel’s to his sixth _bottle_.

There’s a slight difference in their natural tolerance levels.

After, their shot glasses slam back against the tabletop with a crack that’s almost perfectly synchronized. Jess giggles, which encourages Sam to follow suit, and then Gabriel. The three of them are a mess, and have been since they staked out their place at the bar almost an hour ago, a line of shots having been poured for them right away.

While Castiel himself isn’t partaking in the drinking, and Dean has only downed half the shots that Sam and Jess have, he still finds their antics amusing. Cas doesn’t even know where they are right now—after leaving the chapel, he had paid attention to nothing but Dean. As far as he’s aware, they’re in some less-than-clean hotel on a road Gabriel called ‘the Strip’, the name of which Castiel couldn’t provide if he tried.

Once their latest round of shots is completed, Gabriel makes a face like he’s seen something incredible near the bar and toddles off to investigate, and Sam and Jess fall into each other, whispering—rather loudly—flirtatious things in one another’s ears.

Quite honestly, Cas is quickly becoming envious of Bobby, who had opted out of celebratory drinking and was taken home after they left the chapel. He had given his blessing for the marriage in abundance and teared up as he said goodbye to Dean and Castiel before he left—but right at this moment, the man is likely surrounded by peace and quiet, not several hundred drunk people and the stench of alcohol, with horribly off-key singing blasting out over all of it.

Castiel wishes he could say the same.

As if she’s reading his thoughts, Jess chooses that exact moment to squeal, “Ooh, karaoke!” She clutches excitedly at Sam with one hand and points at a small stage across the room with the other, the apparent source of the awful singing. She looks up at her boyfriend pleadingly. “Will you go with me, babe? We can do a duet! Please please please please please?”

Despite the permanent flush to his face, Sam looks far from eager. “You know I can’t sing.”

Jess whines, “ _Please_ , Sam? We can do ‘Don’t go Breaking My Heart’! It’ll be _great_!”

Sam flails slightly, pouting like a child. “Jess, I don’t _want to_.”

“I will!” Gabriel chimes in suddenly, appearing out of nowhere directly between the couple. Since he disappeared a few minutes ago, he’s somehow gained a balloon hat in the form of a crown. He beams and puts an arm around Jess, ignoring Sam altogether. “Apparently Sammy-boy has no appreciation for the classics, but I _love_ that song. Let’s go for it, shall we, m’lady?”

He brandishes his arm to her, crooking his elbow. Jess takes it with a pleased giggle, sticks her tongue out at Sam, and then they both disappear into the crowd of other patrons, presumably in the direction of the karaoke stage, leaving Sam to pout after them.

“Did he just…” He looks at Dean and Cas, helpless. “Did he just steal my girlfriend?”

Dean laughs, propping himself up on his elbows against the table. “That’s what you get, Sammy. Could’ve just done the karaoke with her. Now you’re losing out to an _archangel_ , and it’s no one’s fault but your own.”

Sam seems particularly torn by that. He stares off in the direction the pair had disappeared in, frowning heavily. “She wouldn’t… She wouldn’t choose him over me, right? They wouldn’t go _that_ far with it? They’re just fucking with me?”

Castiel’s immediate inclination is to tell Sam that his brother wouldn’t do such a thing—even though he’s not entirely sure about that—but Dean nudges him across the bond, silently encouraging him to play along. His amusement is intoxicating, so Castiel is hardly going to deny him.

He shrugs at Sam. “Gabriel _is_ rather flirtatious. I’ve seen him steal lovers from out from under even more influential humans over the millennia.”

Sam groans at the same time that Dean throws his head back and laughs. Dean leans forward to clap a hand to his brother’s back. “Okay, come on. She’s not leaving you for Gabe, alright? She’s totally in love with you, have some confidence in yourself, you loser.”

Sam makes a face that Cas knows Dean would classify as a ‘bitchface’, though the amount of alcohol in the man’s system lessens the heat of it. “Says the one who _did_ fall for an angel of the Lord and wanted nothing more in the world than to get hitched to him. Maybe they’ve just got charm—Jess could fall for the same trap.”

Dean scowls in return. “It’s not a _trap_. And fuck you, you’re the one who gave me the idea to ‘put a ring on it’ in the first place!”

“I’m not the one who made it your _dying wish_ , jerk.”

Dean quickly realizes that he doesn’t have a comeback for that, and his cheeks turn pink. He picks up one of the few neglected shots on the table and downs its contents to give himself something to do, grumbling, “Shut up, bitch.”

Sam smirks in satisfaction. The expression fades, however, when a new song starts to play over the speakers with Jess and Gabriel’s voices accompanying it. He stares sullenly in their direction, and after a moment, he gets up and walks toward them, wavering slightly as he disappears into the crowd.

Castiel chuckles, and casually reaches out to stop his husband from taking the third shot that he had started to reach for—the second having been swallowed down just before Sam left. Cas may have been watching the younger Winchester, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed what has been happening, and he doesn’t want Dean as drunk as their family members. Knowing it’s the best way to discourage such a thing, he leans in to whisper against Dean’s temple, “I would much rather you be sober when we properly celebrate our wedding night tonight.”

Dean nearly chokes on his own tongue, the shot almost spilling when it gets dropped back against the table. The hungry look Cas gets in answer makes his smile widen, which is an expression the omega quickly mirrors. Castiel slides closer to him on the bench seat they long-ago claimed as their own, sliding his hand across the back of Dean’s shoulders and pulling the man into a heated kiss. However, before he can act upon the rapidly-forming plan to simply scoop Dean into his arms and disappear with him now, a nearby shout—unfortunately—interrupts them.

“Where can we get some strippers around here? Dean!”

Dean jerks, nearly hitting his head against Cas’ in his hurry to lean out of his intimate moment with his mate. He twists toward the archangel, face pinched with irritation and scent lacing with anger at having been disrupted. “What, asshole?”

Gabriel stands on the opposite side of their table with his hands on his hips, undeterred by the omega’s ire and clearly too drunk to care. His balloon crown is tilted sideways, and despite having left with him previously, Jess is now nowhere to be seen. “Where are your pals, huh? Where do your kind hang out, and can you get us an employee discount? This is very important.”

“You know, Gabe,” Dean says indignantly, “strippers don’t exactly have a _union_ , or a MySpace page, for fuck’s sake. I hardly even knew the people I worked with at my last joint, what makes you think I’d be able to help you in _Vegas_?”

Sam had immediately—strangely—gravitated toward Gabriel when he showed up, and had slung an arm around the archangel’s shoulders, propping what looks to be the majority of his weight on the shorter man. He appears even more drunk than when Castiel last saw him. But given how close he is, there’s absolutely no denying the exchange he just heard. Castiel realizes it before either of the other two do, and props his chin in his hand to hide his smile in his palm.

He knows Dean never wanted Sam to know about his previous employment, but at this point, the secret is already out. All that’s left to do now is to watch the inevitable meltdown and, given how drunk Sam is, it’s bound to be amusing.

As could only have been expected, Sam’s face drains of color, and he looks sluggishly between the trio of angels. When he finds Cas’ attention already on him, and no hint of laughter in either Dean or Gabriel’s words—which have continued, the two now steadily bickering about strippers and how necessary they are to this ‘party’—he makes a sound like a dying animal and demands simply, “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Dean’s gaze snaps to Sam in an instant. He gapes at his brother, like he somehow hadn’t noticed he was there, then casts a frantic look at Castiel. “Um—Yes? Totally joking?”

Gabriel, on the other hand, seizes the opportunity being presented to him. He throws his arm around Sam and pats him on the back, then says as grandly as he can muster, “Oh, Sammy, have I got a story for _you_. Would you believe it if I were to tell you that _these_ two lovely lovebirds—” He waves toward Dean and Castiel. “—first laid eyes on one another while Dean-o was working the pole? And on angels and demons night, no less— _real_ demon, your brother. Sleeping with customers—how _sinful_.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean mumbles to himself, hiding the furious blush on his face in his hands.

Castiel wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Sam’s face then manages to grow even paler, and it becomes even more apparent that Gabriel alone is responsible for keeping him on his feet. “No—No, god, no. Gabe, why would you tell me that?! Oh god, I’m never gonna get that picture out of my head. I did _not need to know this_.”

Jess chooses that moment to rejoin them, limping severely and not looking pleased. “Guys? Guys, I broke a heel. What am I supposed to—Sam? Honey, what’s wrong?”

Sam groans, and pushes away from Gabriel to instead hide his face in his girlfriend’s neck. “God, I need _brain bleach_.”

Dean takes that as his opportunity to take Cas by the hand and stand from their booth, blush unfading. “Okay, we’re just gonna—we’re gonna go. I’ll, uh—talk to you later, Sammy. Try not to have an aneurysm, will you?”

“No promises,” Sam mumbles, hugging Jess tighter. Dean continues to pull Cas away, but even from a distance, they can hear him say to himself, “God, and I thought about buying Jess a _ring_ with that money you sent me.”

Jess practically shrieks, broken shoe evidently forgotten. “You thought about _what_ —”

“Aaaand that’s our cue,” Dean says, deliberately tugging on Castiel’s hand again, and frankly—Castiel couldn’t agree more. Walking out is fine, of course, but ultimately that’s not going to get them where they need to be for the night, so without waiting a moment longer, he pulls Dean to him and flies them both far away.

They land directly on a bed three states away in a tangled heap of feathers and limbs, Dean’s wings having fallen back into their corporeal state in surprise when Cas abruptly flew them away, and Castiel having intentionally left his own out. For a moment Cas is on top, then Dean as they tumble, then Cas again. The alpha uses the brief advantage he has to cover his omega’s body with his own, and kiss him deeply. He savors the taste of Dean’s mouth as he licks into it, swallowing every pleased sound his mate makes.

His upper hand, however, does not last for long. Dean digs his fingers into the sensitive feathers at the base of Castiel’s wings and the alpha gasps at the unexpected pleasure, a distraction Dean takes complete advantage of to roll them once more and gain an edge. Once he’s on top of Cas, he grins, and pins his mate’s wrists to the bed.

“Nice escape there, babe,” he says, dropping down to nuzzle against Cas’ neck. His scent, so sweet with arousal and so close to Castiel’s nose, makes the seraph feel dizzy. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were _planning_ to just scoop me up and go.”

Castiel tilts his head up to grant Dean more room, grinning. “I may have been thinking about it for some time, yes. Sam’s distress proved to be the perfect excuse.”

Dean chuckles. “God, I’m glad that he was drunk when he found out about that. With any luck, he’ll forget it ever even happened.” He grinds his hips down against Cas’ then, and says pointedly, “Now let’s stop talking about Sam, alright? Really not the best use of our time right now.”

Cas nods emphatically, hips twitching up into Dean’s. “Yes—much better things to be doing, I agree.”

Dean’s wings fluff with unrestrained happiness and flare provocatively, baring his soft, black-mottled under-feathers to his alpha. The movements are unintentional, Castiel knows, and purely subconscious—but that doesn’t make him any less entranced, and his own wings arch against the bed in an answering display without thought.

Dean’s eyes track the movements of Cas’ wings, and his own dip down in response, but he doesn’t comment, clearly not knowing what to make of it. He instead rolls his hips again instead and their breathing catches in unison at the friction. He teases then, words coming out as more of a gasp then Cas is sure was intended, “Want me to play some AC/DC? We can reenact night one, huh? Whaddaya say?”

Despite how tempting the offer is, Castiel shakes his head, arching up just enough to catch Dean’s lips in another kiss. It encourages Dean to lean into him more fully, making it easy for Castiel to curl his wings up and over his omega, rubbing his feathers against his husband’s. The added sensations distract Dean, and this time when Castiel takes the chance to flip them both, he makes sure Dean has no chance to flip them back.

“No reenacting,” he says with a smile. He kisses Dean one more time, then trails his lips down the side of his jaw, before starting to move down his chest—rendered bare by a flick of Castiel’s wrist. “Tonight is all new. All for us. I think that may be preferable, don’t you?”

Dean nods, body and wings alike twitching and arching up toward Cas. “Yeah, that’s—okay. H-have it then, babe.”

Castiel smiles against Dean’s skin, pleased to have been granted permission. For a second, though, he does think back to ‘night one’. He thinks of the fact that Dean had pulled a gun on him when he discovered his true nature, thought him to be a threat.

They can’t reenact night one, because this is not night one.

They’ve grown so much since then. Their sense of _normal_ has changed, shifted into something entirely new. The truth of this becomes incredibly apparent when Cas drops down to wrap his lips around Dean’s length, and when the omega cries out, new grace impossible to maintain, it is accompanied by the shattering of the bedside lamp.

Dean jerks in surprise and twists to stare at the remains of the lamp almost accusingly. Castiel, on the other hand, can’t help but laugh.

This may not be the normal either of them expected to achieve, but it’s one Cas can get used to nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A year (and two days) ago, I uploaded a PWP to AO3, one that--while a unique mix of tropes--was fairly insignificant. I was still new to fic-writing, and my only goal when writing it was to have a short story with stripper!Dean and nervous!naive!Cas getting it on in the back room. It wasn't going to be ABO, Cas wasn't going to be an angel--those things just happened, purely by chance. Brain said _hey, what if..._ and I went with it. I wasn't entirely happy with the title I came up with, the fic itself felt both too short and too long, I wasn't sure what people would think of it--but I was also kind of intrigued by the universe I was setting up, so when lovely readers like yourselves started demanding more, I sure as hell wasn't going to say no. I think you can see how it spiraled out of control from there.
> 
> A year and two days.
> 
> Thank you to every one of you reading this, whether you've been here from the start or have just found me, whether you've shared it or kept it to yourself, whether you've left a comment and a kudo or just lurked in the shadows. No matter what--I love you. <3
> 
> Also, a special bonus thanks to [Ari](http://willowywings.tumblr.com/), who has gone above and beyond as a beta and as a friend since the day I recruited her, right after chapter 2 ( _2_ , how crazy is that??). If you're a fan of this fic, then she deserves just as much of a thank you for its completion as I do. She is wonderful in every way.
> 
> Friendly reminder that although this is the end of FEAAO (FEA, as Ari and I have dubbed it), it is not the end of the story. Not quite sure when the sequel will begin (I have a few other fics lined up which I'm going to take advantage of this break to work on, I'm really excited for them), so I highly recommend subbing [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/464236) to be kept in the know, and also ready to catch any side stories/timestamps that may come up in the interim. 
> 
> I'm hoping to keep all of this up-to-date on my [tumblr](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/) as well (and hey! I've finally added an updates tab, and _specifically_ have a spot for fic info! How wild is that?), so give me a follow, will you? Wouldn't want to miss out on anything. ;)
> 
> And... I think that's about all I got. I've ranted about everything I can think to rant about. So again, thank you to each and every one of you for reading, and thank you for making this last year the best it could have been. 
> 
> See you on the next fic. <3


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